by David Evans
“Really? I thought this was your story, Janey.”
Susan just smiled.
“I’m just going for a pee before we head back,” Souter announced. “I’ll see you in Reception.”
Souter was washing his hands at the sink when a figure entered the toilets. He glanced in the mirror and thought he recognised the face. Dressed only in shirt, tie and trousers with no jacket, the man obviously worked in the council offices. As he dried his hands and the man was at the sink washing his, Souter looked over again. This time, he was sure. “Joe?” he said. “Joe Webster?”
The man looked at Souter for a second before breaking into a broad grin. “Bob Souter, as I live and breathe. How are you, mate?” He held out a wet hand before realising what he’d done. “Sorry, let me dry these first. I see your name now and again in the papers,” he said before the noise from the warm air dryer drowned all further conversation out.
Souter’s thoughts went back a quarter of a century to the last time he’d seen his former classmate as they prepared to leave school and face an uncertain future. Joe had been proficient in maths and science and, as far as he could remember, he’d gone to study something fairly academic at Manchester University.
The dryer stopped and Webster turned to him, a serious expression on his face. “Are you here for the press conference?”
“It’s just finished.” Souter was surprised to see his old schoolmate walk up the line of cubicles and check no-one was in them.
“What do you make of it?”
Souter was puzzled. “How do you mean, Joe?”
“There’s something not right here,” he said, giving another furtive glance around the empty toilets.
Just then, the sound of the outer door opening could be heard before two other journalists entered. “Hello, Bob,” one of them greeted.
“All right, Jim,” Souter acknowledged and led the way out into the corridor, Joe following.
Once there, Joe placed a hand on Souter’s elbow. “Are you around for a bit?” he asked.
“I was going to head back to the office with my colleagues, why?”
“No, that’s okay. I’ll catch you around sometime.”
Souter looked at his watch. “What time do you have lunch?”
“Half twelve, normally. You don’t fancy a pint then?”
Souter grinned. “Read my mind. Where do you fancy?”
“How about The Talbot and Falcon down by the bus station?”
Souter screwed up his face. “That’s a bit of a shit hole, isn’t it?”
Webster smiled. “But guaranteed no one from here will be in. About twenty to one. See you.” With that, he turned in the opposite direction and took the stairs.
* * *
Janey and Susan had returned to the office to draft an article on that morning’s announcement for the evening edition whilst Souter made his way into the Talbot & Falcon pub just after half past twelve. He collected his pint and sat at a table just inside the door. A few savoury characters were drinking in the back and two couples were sitting at another table near the bar.
Five minutes later, Joe Webster appeared.
Souter stood and shook his friend’s hand. “What can I get you?” he offered.
Once they’d settled down at the table, drinks in front of them and food ordered, Souter began the conversation, “So, you’re a council employee?”
Webster nodded, taking a sip of his lager. “Senior Engineer.”
“Was that what you did at Manchester?”
“I studied Civil Engineering. When I left I was fortunate enough to get a position with a small consultancy in Leeds. I joined the Council here about eight years ago now.”
Over the next few minutes, Souter obtained a potted history of his old classmate. He’d married a girl he met when he worked in Leeds and they now had two children, a boy of twelve and a girl of ten. He showed him a photo of Kathy, his wife. In return, Souter told him of his life since leaving school; missing out one or two elements he didn’t feel his friend needed to know.
Once their food arrived, Souter turned the subject to this morning’s events in the Council offices. “You’re obviously not happy with things where you are, Joe. Why is that?”
“I tell you, the politics is horrendous.”
“But in case you hadn’t noticed, we’ve got a Labour government now, so this lot here must be in their element. I mean, you could put a monkey up for Labour and they’d vote it in round here.”
Webster gave a grim smile. “I’m not thinking of those sorts of politics, I’m talking job politics. All the walking on egg shells in case you upset the wrong person, political correctness and all the little fiddles and schemes they all seem to have going.” He waved a fork to enhance the point. “No, I’ll be honest with you, Bob; I’m looking round for somewhere else at the moment. I’ve had enough of local government. The pay’s better in the private sector too and I don’t want to be branded as someone with no ambition.”
Souter took a deep breath and leaned back. “Wow. You are discontented, aren’t you?”
Webster shrugged and ate another forkful.
Souter watched as two scruffy lads came into the bar and ordered two pints of lager. They glanced round the room but their attention quickly returned to the young barmaid as she poured their drinks, content to have a bit of banter with her. Satisfied there was no one taking any interest in their conversation, he leaned in closer to his old school friend. “When we met this morning … you indicated there was something amiss with this scheme. Is this one of those ‘little fiddles and schemes’ you just mentioned.”
Webster paused, placing his knife and fork down on his plate. He seemed to be considering not only what to say but whether he should say anything at all. Finally he spoke hesitantly. “You’re a journalist, right? This is off the record.”
“Go on.”
“The final report on the soil conditions on this site at Lofthouse, the old NCB land …”
“What about it?”
Webster again was hesitant. “The picture it paints … it’s far worse than I’m sure it is.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I did a lot of work on the site surveys. The contamination wasn’t that great. I’ve only just seen the final report that was submitted with the application for EU funding.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t seem to be the same site to me.”
Again Souter furtively glanced around the pub. Voice low, he asked, “Are you saying that the report was doctored?”
Webster nodded. “Had to be.”
“But why do that?”
“The only reason I can think of would be to increase the amount of money we could get from Europe to budget for the remediation works.”
“Remediation? What’s that?”
“Site clean up, removing contaminants and making the site safe in plain English.”
“And that would benefit who exactly?”
It was Webster’s turn to lean in closer. “Well, I’ve been thinking about that. You’ve seen that slippery bastard Faulkner?” Souter nodded. “Well I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could break wind. Then there’s my boss, Sam Appleyard. I used to think he was okay. But that report couldn’t have been altered without his input. At the end of the day, it’s his name on it. And, let’s face it; the old bugger retires in a couple of months.”
“A contribution to his pension fund?” Souter queried.
Webster smiled. “You may say that … I couldn’t possibly comment.”
“But they wouldn’t be able to just trouser money from this, though surely?”
Webster looked surprised. “No, of course not. But … if whoever gets the contract has … close connections with them, then …”
It was Souter’s turn to smile. “And have you got some idea who that third party might be?”
“Judging by your reaction, Bob, I’d say you have already.”
“Another?” Souter indicated Webster’s empty glass.
&n
bsp; “Best not. I’d like to leave on my own terms and at the time of my choosing, if you get my drift.”
“Doesn’t have to be a lager? If you’re not in a rush, I fancy another.”
Webster settled for a J2O and a couple of minutes later, the conversation resumed.
“So you think Faulkner’s bent then, Joe?”
“As arseholes! You don’t get to his position without shitting on people and pocketing a few bob along the way.” He took a sip of his drink before continuing, “There was something going on with his computer this week too.”
Souter hoped his face didn’t give anything away. “His computer?”
“Yes,” Webster chuckled. “Actually, do you remember a skinny lad a year below us …Jezza, we called him …”
“Jez, Jeremy Bullen, yep. He’s one of your security bods these days, isn’t he?”
“That’s right. He’s actually head of security now. But how did you know that?”
“He helped me with something last year.”
“Mind, he’s not skinny any more. Built like an outhouse now.”
Souter smiled. “I know.”
“Anyway, he was telling me this morning that Faulkner seemed to be locked out of his work computer.”
Souter felt his blood rush. “Oh?”
“Nothing much in that, except he’d been on holiday last week and found out his password had been changed in the meantime. Faulkner gave his secretary, Brenda, a bit of a third degree and it turns out some young woman talked her way into his office last week, claiming to be one of the IT team. Next thing, Faulkner calls in Jezza to see if he can spot the culprit on CCTV. No idea what she might have been after but … I just wondered with the timing of everything …it’s a bit strange, isn’t it?”
Souter shrugged.
“Especially with everything else that’s going on at the moment.”
“You think it’s connected with Lofthouse?”
“Maybe.” Webster was quiet for a minute then chuckled. “But he’s so thick; he uses his kid’s names and dates of birth for his passwords so he won’t forget.” He stood up. “Anyway, I must get back.”
Souter stood as well and held out a hand.
Webster shook it. “Good to see you after all these years, Bob.”
“You too, Joe. But listen, can I ask you one small favour?” He took out a business card and passed it over.
Webster looked at it for a second then slipped it into his pocket. “If I can.”
“Would it be possible to get a copy of that Site Report you were on about?”
Webster sighed. “If I do, you can’t link it to me.”
Souter held up both hands. “Absolute discretion. But could you also identify what results you think have been … adjusted?”
Webster shook his head. “Christ, you don’t want much. Do you?” They held each other’s gaze, before he smiled. “Leave it with me; I’ll see what I can do.”
31
Wednesday 8th August 2001
“Where did you disappear to yesterday?” Susan asked when she bumped into Souter in the kitchen making himself a drink.
He tapped the side of his nose. “Useful contact,” he said.
“Well if that’s the way it is, you won’t want to see what I’m about to print out then?”
He stirred his coffee and put the spoon in a cup of water. “More stuff from that memory stick?”
She filled the kettle, switched it on and tapped the side of her nose. “Wait and see.”
Fifteen minutes later she came up behind him at his workstation. “We managed to find the reports that accompanied the applications for funding for Lofthouse,” she said. “We’re talking big money here.”
He spun round in his chair. “Let’s have a quick look.” Printout on his lap, he quickly thumbed through the various reports and expert opinions that formed part of the submission. Nodding, his face was studious. “Not surprising,” he eventually said. “This is a huge scheme.” He looked up at Susan. “And this was in Faulkner’s files?”
“One marked ‘TD’.”
He motioned the papers in his hand. “Can I keep hold of these?”
“Sure,” she said. “I printed them for you anyway. Sammy’s trying to get into his personal email account but not having much luck.”
He carefully placed the reports in a new manila file in one of his desk drawers. “A little bird tells me he’s not too original when he sets his passwords. Apparently he’ll use his children’s names and dates of birth for them.”
Susan nodded. “I’ll tell her. I think she noted down a lot of personal info from his diary when she was at his desk.”
“Nothing interesting from your … other sources?”
“Voicemails you mean? No, nothing much.”
“Let me know if you hear anything. What are you up to this morning?”
“Off down the courts in a minute, see what exciting misdemeanours I can help fill an inch or two with.”
“All good experience, Susan,” he said, turning to face his computer screen once more.
As Susan walked away, he lifted his handset and dialled a number. On answer, he asked to be put through to Joe Webster.
* * *
“What happened?” Strong asked as Stainmore and Ormerod appeared at his office doorway.
“Bailed to appear before the Crown Court. Probably in a couple of months’ time,” Stainmore said.
Both officers had attended the magistrates’ hearing for Patrick and Frank Whitaker charged with offences relating to the distraction burglaries.
“Ah, well,” Strong considered, “I don’t suppose they’ll disappear in that time. Both have jobs they’ll want to try and keep hold of. But they won’t let Patrick carry on if he’s convicted, especially as that’s where he made contact with the victims and planned it all.”
“He did help us get most of the stolen items back as well, though,” Ormerod said.
Stainmore looked at him. “Not the point, Luke. They should never have been stolen in the first place.”
Ormerod nodded resignedly. “Right, I’ve got some paperwork to catch up on.” He turned and left.
“Me too,” Stainmore added.
“Oh, Kelly, before you do,” Strong said, “where are you with Denise Whitaker?”
She shuffled in to his office and shut the door.
“I suppose I’ll have to close my enquiries,” she said. “Although my instinct tells me differently, I can’t find any suspicious circumstances surrounding the case. No evidence of a break in. So unless some third party entered with a key, or she let them in … and bearing in mind she was in the bath … well …”
“And I don’t mean this unkindly but it would give Patrick something to think about and organise - take his mind off his situation.”
32
Thursday 9th August 2001
“Sammy says thanks for that tip.” Susan brought Souter a coffee to his desk.
“Thanks,” he said, engrossed in typing up an interview he’d conducted that morning with a junior government minister from the Home Office. The minister was visiting the region to assure local councils that the budgets for policing would be maintained. Frankly, Souter had heard the rhetoric before and didn’t believe a word of it, but he would have to give it a positive spin. “What tip was that?” he asked, pausing his typing.
She glanced over the partition to Janey Clarke’s workstation.
“She’s out,” Souter told her.
“Just making sure.” She pulled in a spare chair and sat down next to him. “To check out the passwords on Faulkner’s email account using his children’s names and dates of birth,” she went on.
“Did it work?”
“Eventually. Sammy had made some notes from his diary when she got into his office. Took a few attempts, mind.”
“Anything of interest?”
She proceeded to tell him how various mentions of meetings at the ‘T Club’ were peppered throughout the messages. “The meeting
on the 10th July was a good one, apparently,” she said, eyebrows raised, a hint of a smile on her lips. “Those messages involved Charles Chamberlain, someone called Sam Appleyard and a few other names, including several women.”
“Like who?”
“Can’t remember them all offhand, but one was the ever loyal Brenda.”
“Faulkner’s secretary?”
She nodded. “I think she prefers the term ‘PA’.”
Souter gazed into nowhere for a second. “Sam Appleyard is the chief engineer for the council. So he’s into all that stuff too?” he wondered aloud. “No mention of our friends from the north, Brogan and Kennedy?”
“Didn’t say. But apparently, there’s a meeting scheduled for tonight.” There was a glint in her eye. “Don’t suppose you fancy gate crashing?”
“Tempting as it may seem, I’m seeing Alison tonight.”
“Take her with you.”
“I’m not sharing her with anyone. Besides, we’re off out to the theatre.” He turned back to his computer.
“What, the Good Old Days?”
“Bugger off and find something useful to do,” he said, a broad grin on his face.
33
Friday 10th August 2001
Souter was looking forward to a cosy night in with Alison, so the phone call from Jeremy Bullen, or Jezza, as he knew him, was a bit inconvenient. He hoped it wouldn’t take too long. He had an idea as to what he wanted to talk about but was surprised he wanted to meet in a pub in Wakefield. The Black Horse was on the corner of Drury Lane and Westgate, opposite one of the jewels of the city, the Theatre Royal. Over the road stood another icon of the city’s entertainment scene of earlier times, Unity Hall, now sadly in need of some of the loving attention lavished on the Theatre.
Souter was a few minutes early of their meet time of six-thirty and was ordering a pint. Bullen appeared at his shoulder as he was about to pay.
“Just a pint of lager for me, Bob,” he said.
A few minutes later, they were sitting in a quiet corner of the front room. Bullen had played for their school football team with them when he was a skinny fifteen-year-old but was now a very muscular character that you wouldn’t want to upset. He was now head of security for Wakefield District Council.
