by David Evans
Souter took a step closer to him and in a quiet voice said, “I know about Miss Weaver.”
Immediately, Anthony stopped what he was doing and slowly turned to face him. “What?”
“I said I know about …”
“How? Who told you?”
“Doesn’t matter. Was that where you were the evening of the fire?”
Anthony’s head dropped. “Shit!”
“You could say that. But I’ll make a deal with you. Let me talk to her, confirm what you say and, as far as I’m concerned, I’ll say no more about it, certainly not to your Mum. If she asks, all I’ll say is that you were with a girl.”
The conversation paused as they danced around an elderly gent who passed them by in the narrow aisle. “But then I’ve got to say who. And that’s another lie to unravel.” Anthony looked distraught.
“Just say it was someone you met when you were out with Simon one night. Not from round here. Whatever, it’s over; you’re not seeing her any more. Simon was doing what a mate does, covering for you.”
Anthony looked up at Souter. “She’s going to another school in the new term.”
“Miss Weaver?”
Anthony nodded.
“That could be handy,” Souter said. “How do you feel about her?”
“It’s getting too awkward.”
Souter had a faint smile playing on his lips. “But the sex was great though, right?”
Finally Anthony lost the sullen look. “Fantastic.” He smiled.
They held one another’s gaze for a second. “So how does my idea sound?” Souter asked.
“It’ll be over anyway when she finds out that you know about us. But I’ve got no real choice have I? I didn’t want to lie to Mum, but I couldn’t tell her the truth. And when she went and made her statement, I wondered if it was true – that she’d got so angry with Dad that … Anyway, I’m glad it had nothing to do with her. Things just got out of hand and I couldn’t say anything.”
Souter studied the boy. “Have I your word that you were with your teacher that night?”
“Of course.”
“Okay, I’ll leave it for you to sort things out with Miss Weaver in your own time and in your own way. I won’t make things any more difficult for you by going round to talk to her. All right?”
“Thanks.”
The book Anthony had in his hand caught Souter’s attention. “Look at this,” he said, taking it from him and examining the cover photograph. “I remember these engines coming through Doncaster when I was growing up. My Dad was interested in trains and he used to take me to see them. You could feel the throb of the big diesel engines vibrating through the platforms. And I can still hear the distinctive sound they made. Deltics, yes, that’s what they were. I remember they were on some of the top named expresses; Flying Scotsman, ten o’clock out of Kings Cross and …” He paused as he remembered another named train. “The Talisman, that was four o’clock from London.” He opened the front cover and was shocked. “How much?”
He gave the book back to Anthony. As he made to leave, he turned back. “Hey, don’t be hard on Simon, he’s a good mate. It’s just my girls can be very persuasive when they want to be.”
* * *
“I thought you’d be wanting to spend as much time as possible with Alison before she jets off to exotic places instead of supping pints with me in a noisy pub.” Strong wiped the froth from his top lip after slurping from his pint.
Souter grinned. “Oh, I’ll be seeing her later tonight, don’t you worry about that.”
They were sitting at a table in Henry Boons on Westgate just beyond the railway bridge having met up after work. It was a busy place and suited their mood.
“Besides, I’m not sure you can class New York as ‘exotic’.”
“Beats the arse off Wakefield, though. When is it she actually goes?”
Souter put his glass back down on the mat. “Sunday. I’m taking her over to Manchester.”
“You’re going to miss her.” Strong said it as a statement rather than a question.
“The truth is … I don’t really want her to go.” Souter glanced at his friend. “I mean, it’s a long way … on a plane … and there have been some disasters in recent years. Lockerbie, Kegworth.”
“Come on, Bob, it’s the safest form of transport.”
“No, it’s just …” He looked down and adjusted his glass on the beer mat. “I’ll worry.” He looked up and faced Strong. “She’s the best thing that’s happened to me.”
“I know.” Strong took a sip of his beer and attempted to lighten the mood. “Well I hope you’ll behave yourself while she’s away.”
Souter spread his arms. “I’m a changed man, Col. And anyway; she’ll have her spies on the case, Sammy and Susan.”
“You’re a lucky man, Bob.”
“I know. Anyway, how’s life with your new boss? Any progress on the Chamberlain fire?”
Strong had another sup. “It’s stalling. We’ve had nothing new since we released Mrs Chamberlain.”
“What about the son, Anthony?”
“No, I thought about that, but his alibi’s water-tight apparently. His pal says they were together that night watching music videos.”
Souter felt inwardly relieved. “So what about his BDSM club members? I mean, that would be taking masochism to a new level.”
Strong smiled. “You wouldn’t believe who’s involved with that.”
“Oh, I would, Col.”
“But apparently their last ‘meeting’ was the week before.” Strong squinted at his friend. “Anyway, how do you know? More importantly, who do you know is involved?”
“It’s my job, just like it is yours. I probably don’t know everyone but I do know it involves some senior council officials.” Souter held up his glass. “Another?”
52
Sunday 2nd September 2001
Souter watched Alison get dressed that Sunday morning and immediately wanted to drag her back into bed. God, how was he going to manage for six weeks without her? Well, four by the time he met up with her again in New York. He admired her shapely legs before she put on her fitted trousers then felt disappointed as the lovely rounded breasts disappeared within the confines of her bra. Was it just his imagination or did they seem a bit bigger these days?
She caught him looking. “Pervert,” she said with a cheeky grin. The effect on him was noticeable. “And you can put that away,” she said and laughed.
“Don’t go,” he said.
She stopped buttoning up her blouse. “Are you serious?”
He sat up. “Of course. I don’t want you to go all the way over there … on your own.”
“I can’t not go. Not now. The office would be mad with me.”
“Sod the office.”
“But it’s my job. My career.” She sat back down on the bed and looked at him through sad eyes. “If you’d said this before, I would have pulled out of this trip.”
He leaned forward, took her head in his hands and kissed her. “I know. Ignore me, I’m being selfish.”
“No you’re not. You’re worried, I understand that. But it’ll be fine, trust me.” She stood. “Anyway, you’ll be with me in no time.” She smiled at him and continued to button her blouse.
Again he had an uneasy feeling that her smile didn’t quite reach everywhere it should.
“Come on,” she said, “I don’t want to miss the flight.”
On the drive over to Manchester Airport, all sorts of random thoughts had gone through his head. “I wonder when it was that they stopped calling it Ringway?” he contemplated.
“Ringway?”
“Yes, I remember as a kid that’s what they called Manchester Airport.”
“What made you think of that?”
“Dunno. Just something that sprang to mind.”
“Well never mind all that rubbish,” she retorted. “You just be careful while I’m away. And don’t get into any trouble.”
“As
if.”
“I’ve told Susan and Sammy to keep an eye on you. I know what you’re like.” She giggled and at that point he immediately wanted to stop the car, right there, on the M62 and rip her clothes off.
He watched her progress through the security screens, and felt a pang of jealousy as some overweight woman in a uniform ran her hands over Alison’s body. Clear of all the formalities, she put her jacket back on and picked up the rucksack she’d decided to use as hand luggage.
What a lovely arse, he thought, as she bent down to adjust a shoe.
She turned towards him one last time and blew him a kiss. ‘I love you,’ she mouthed then disappeared from view.
Suddenly, a huge lonely feeling descended. And then a sense of foreboding. What if that was the last he would ever see her? His thoughts darted back four years to the last time he’d seen his son, Adam. That was just before his ex-wife took him off to Canada. He’d lost him too when he’d drowned, two years ago now. Just seven years old. A lump came to his throat and his eyes were full. Guilt was the next wave of emotion that swept over him. Guilt that it had been some time since he’d thought of Adam. But that was down to Alison; and that was a good thing, surely.
He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. Before he could replace it, the strains of Scotland the Brave, the ring tone on his mobile, snapped him out of the dark places he’d just visited.
“She get off all right?” Sammy’s voice enquired.
“Just gone through security,” he struggled to say.
“Are you okay?”
“What? Oh yeah. Just had a sneezing fit, that’s all,” he lied.
“Well, don’t forget you’re coming to us for tea tonight.”
“How could I?” he said with a chuckle.
“Susan and me are going to cook you up a storm!”
“Great. I’ll see you both later.” He ended the call and instantly felt better.
53
Monday 3rd September 2001
The Redoubt seemed quiet when Souter pulled into the car park at the side. There were only two other cars. Joe Webster had called him that afternoon to say he had some information for him. They’d settled on the pub as being sufficiently ‘off the plot’ where no one from the council offices was likely to frequent.
Webster was sitting on a bench seat in one of the back rooms, pint of lager on the table in front of him. Souter entered and signed a drinking motion to his old school friend but Webster indicated he was fine with what he had. A couple of minutes later, after a bit of banter with the landlord, he was sitting on a stool opposite him.
“Are you okay?” Souter asked.
“I’m just nervous about all this, Bob.”
Souter took a sip of his Tetley’s. “Why? Have you spoken to anyone else about your suspicions?”
Webster shook his head and lifted his pint. “No.” A drink of his lager and he replaced it onto the beer mat. “It’s just … these are powerful blokes.”
“Faulkner might be a big fish in the little pond of Wakefield local politics,” Souter opined, “but I wouldn’t describe him as a ‘powerful’ man.”
“Nor me. Or Sam Appleyard for that matter.”
“That’s your boss, right?”
Webster nodded. “Not even Pitchforth, the Head of Planning. No, it’s who they’ve managed to get themselves into bed with that concerns me.”
The door to the pub opened and the chatter from three men swept in. Webster glanced across nervously.
“Eh up, lads,” the landlord could be heard saying, “Usual?”
Souter looked over to the room doorway towards the bar then back to lean in closer to his friend. “What have you heard?” he asked.
Raucous laughter erupted from the bar, interrupting their concentration.
Webster smiled briefly then grew serious. “I suspect you’ve probably heard the same.” He leaned forward on the table and lowered his voice. “Have you ever heard of Thistle Developments?” Souter nodded. “Then you can probably tell me more about their owner Kenneth Brogan than me.”
“You’ve heard his name mentioned then?”
“Not him specifically but Thistle. I overheard Sam talking to Pitchforth about them getting involved. They didn’t seem too pleased about it and it wasn’t supposed to be common knowledge – not until they were announced as ‘preferred developer’.” Webster looked to the doorway again but the group were laughing and joking with the landlord at the bar. He resumed his story. “So I did a bit of digging on the internet and discovered Thistle is run by Brogan. All their work’s been north of the border up till now.”
Souter nodded. “I know. But did you also know that Brogan’s brother-in-law is none other than Stuart Hamilton, that Scottish MEP that was at the announcement?”
“Christ. No wonder there’s a lot of hushed conversations going on.” Webster took a large swig of his pint. “I spoke to an old uni mate who works for Glasgow City Council and he told me to be careful. Thistle has … an unsavoury reputation.”
Souter leaned back and stretched. Sitting on the stool wasn’t the most comfortable arrangement. “I’d heard that,” he said. “Anyway, what have you got to substantiate your suspicions that they doctored the site conditions report?”
Webster drained his drink and partly unzipped his jacket before bringing out a large brown envelope.
“I’ll get you another,” Souter said, rising to his feet.
“Just a half, Bob. I’m driving.”
When Souter returned with replenished glasses a few minutes later, Webster pulled out some paperwork from the envelope. He nervously looked to the doorway then unfolded an A3 size drawing and spread it on the seat beside him, the table and his body blocking anyone who might enter from seeing. Souter repositioned his stool to the side of the table not only to reinforce that barrier but so that he could see more clearly.
“This is a map of the old colliery land with all the old buildings shown where they were when the pit was working,” Webster said in hushed tones. “This chain link line is the extent of the site. Now you see this area I’ve shaded …” He circled a section of about ten percent of the total area bounded by a dotted outline, “… this was the extent of the contamination my findings indicated.”
“Right,” Souter said, “I follow that.”
Webster folded the drawing away and opened out another. This also depicted the site. “Now this version is the one that ended up in the official report.” He looked across at Souter who was studying the new plan. “On this one, you can see that the contaminated area is about seventy-five per cent of the total area.”
Souter’s eyes widened. “Bloody Hell,” he said quietly.
“Exactly.”
He looked at the engineer. “But are you sure your initial findings are correct? You didn’t make a mistake? Or someone else discovered a greater area? I’m not doubting you, Joe; I’m just looking for any other explanation.”
“No doubts at all. I saw the original draft some months ago.”
“And you’ve got your site results safe somewhere?”
“On a memory stick at home.” He took a sip of his drink. “It’s in my bedside drawer if anything happens to me.”
Souter looked at Webster’s serious face before it broke into a grin. “Only joking,” he said. “But that’s where it is.”
Two elderly men had come into the pub and were heading into the back room with their drinks.
Webster folded up the second plan and placed it back in the envelope.
“All right, lads,” one of the two newcomers greeted.
Souter turned to face them. “Better now we’re in here,” he returned with a smile.
The two sat down near the doorway and began to chat away.
Back to look at his friend, Souter resumed the conversation. “Have you got anything I can take with me?”
Webster pulled out a memory stick from his pocket and discreetly handed it to Souter. “I managed to make a copy of the f
inal report for you yesterday lunch-time,” he said in a quiet voice. He gave a quick glance to the two men who were engrossed in their own chatter. “Also on there are the figures as they should be.”
Souter slipped the stick into his pocket. “Thanks for this, Joe.” He leaned in close once again. “But listen, in your opinion, how much of a financial difference have these … adjustments made to this project would you think?”
“Could be as much as four or five million.”
“Christ! That is big money. So how much is the scheme worth overall?”
“They’re bandying figures of around a hundred and ten million for the whole thing.” Webster cast another concerned glance to the doorway and drained his drink. “Anyway, I’ll have to go now, Bob. Kathy’ll have my dinner ready and the kids’ll want a bit of time with me.” He stood, put the envelope back inside his jacket and zipped it part way up.
Souter got to his feet and held out a hand. “Thanks for this, Joe. I’ll keep you informed if I hear anything else.”
“Just be careful, Bob. See you.”
He sat back down and watched his friend disappear through the doorway, tapping his pocket to feel the outline of the stick he’d just been given. He didn’t let on that he’d already had a version of the final report, courtesy of Sammy and Susan’s escapades, just in case the one Joe had given him differed again. Check it out tonight at home and print off the reports in the office tomorrow, he thought. In the meantime, he felt peckish. He’d walked down to the pub and would pick up a takeaway on the way back to his flat. He drained his pint and called in to the toilets on his way out.
Emerging through the door to the car park, it was still a warm sunny evening. A strange noise made him stop and turn. A ‘hiss’, almost like a tyre deflating came from behind a car, then stopped. Now a groan. He walked to the back of the first vehicle and looked down.
Joe Webster was lying half propped up against another car. For a split second, Souter struggled to take in the scene. His jacket was open, blood oozing through his shirt from his stomach. Both hands were held against himself in a vain attempt to contain it.
