Troubled Waters

by Trevor Burton

  ‘I’ll ring you in the morning!’ he shouts as the cab moves off.

  Waving back, we walk to the car park at the rear of the office. The Saab appears as we approach, shrouded in mist. Neither of us fancies food but we need to eat; a quick stop at Amelia’s nearest Chinese takeaway is the best we can hope for in the circumstances.

  ‘I’ll crack open a bottle of wine,’ she offers, opening the door to her cottage.

  Half an hour later, house special chow mein finished and washed down with a couple of glasses of red wine, I’m off home, weary after a long day but at least feeling human again.

  Chapter 18

  On Friday I wake up late sleeping through the alarm. I have had a terrible night thinking about Benson’s revelations regarding the disappearance of Hans Johansen and the possibility that FrackUK will not have enough cash to honour the contract with Jamie. He of course doesn’t know yet, as I don’t dare tell him until I hear from Benson or Jos on the bank situation. In my nightmares Hans was blowing stacks of cash, buying a new Jaguar which then morphed into a tractor driven by a hooded ghoul, which can only be Jamie. Benson was trying to plug a dozen large holes in a huge tank that was leaking milk. A signed contract is one thing, and, yes, Jamie could sue and I am sure win, but lawyers don’t come cheap and litigation can take forever. The parent company being American, I’m pretty confident they will have sharp-suited New York lawyers.

  I’m still towelling down after my shower when the land line rings. I consider ignoring it, but soon relent. It’s Jamie. I stand naked while Jamie speaks.

  ‘The protesters are back!’ he shouts down the phone in panic. ‘And there’s more of them this time. What shall I do?’

  ‘Don’t panic,’ I answer, feeling instantly silly. ‘Stay indoors and don’t do anything to provoke them. I’m on my way and I’ll call the police from my hands-free.’

  ‘OK, right, thanks. I appreciate it,’ he says.

  I hurriedly get dressed, glancing in the mirror through the open door into my home office, at the locked filing cabinet. My old gun is still secreted in the third drawer down behind files of old bank statements. Don’t be stupid, I tell my inner self. That stuff was a long time ago. It makes me think of that place, where I was imprisoned for a short time after being injured. Small bits of shrapnel remain in my abdomen, giving me serious bouts of pain from time to time. The moment of reflection passes quickly.

  Skipping breakfast, I head north to Jamie’s farm in Lancashire, keeping faith with the M6 motorway as it is way past rush hour. I’m on the Thelwall viaduct over the Manchester Ship Canal when the mobile rings. It’s Amelia.

  ‘Where are you?’ she demands frantically. ‘I’ve tried your land line. Jamie’s been on in a panic. The protesters are back.’

  I butt in quickly. ‘I know, he phoned me earlier. I’m on my way there now. I missed the alarm.’

  ‘Are you alright?’ she asks. ‘Only it is ten thirty.’

  ‘I’m fine. I didn’t sleep well, that’s all – kept thinking about this cash disappearing from FrackUK.’

  ‘That’s all he needs at the moment,’ she says ruefully. ‘I can see the headlines now: irate farmer shoots protesters, believed to have taken others hostage.’

  ‘Now, let’s not get over-dramatic,’ I counsel.

  ‘Well, I hope you can keep it under control.’

  ‘I’m about to ring Lambert. I’ll let you know what happens.’

  ‘What’ll I do if Carl Benson or Jos Andrew comes on?’

  ‘Oh, bloody hell!’ I exclaim. ‘You’ll just have to stall them. Don’t say anything about the protesters.’

  ‘Won’t Benson know anyway? It’s all his fault… well, the fracking company, anyhow, isn’t it?’

  ‘Technically, yes. Just say I’m on my way in and will get back soonest.’

  ‘OK, will do,’ she says, hanging up.

  Lambert is concerned about my news, having thought erroneously that with Barry Milton out of the way the situation would stay calm.

  ‘I’ll get some officers over there ASAP,’ he advises. ‘You keep your head down and don’t let your client do anything rash.’

  ‘I’ll try my level best. Speak later,’ I answer.

  I park the Saab well out of view of the protest group and walk gingerly down the lane. I soon see a crowd of about a dozen protesters standing at the farm gate with assorted paparazzi and reporters on the other side of the narrow lane.

  Striding forward with as much bravado as I can muster, I reach the group.

  ‘Excuse me, gentlemen. If I can just pass through, please. I have an appointment with the farmer.’

  I hear a voice pipe up from the back. ‘It’s that bastard! He was here last week, and he’ll be from the fracking company.’

  Thereupon I’m pushed and shoved by a couple of the nearest protesters and a stone is thrown, hitting me squarely in the face. Fists begin to fly, and before I know it my back’s to the gate and I’m slugging it out with the two of them. My desperation is such that I’m landing more blows than they are, but for how long? Fortunately, some reporters swiftly run over to break things up as I start to wilt and begin to slide down the rough wooden farm gate. I see knees and boots at the ready, and one boot hits me in the back just as a blast from a shotgun instils a brief silence. One of the reporters opens the gate and quickly manhandles me through, as a surprisingly calm-looking Jamie strides forward, every inch an old Wild West sheriff. He moves forward purposefully to within two feet of the gate, and holding up the shotgun he looks the protesters straight in the eye and growls, ‘There’s one barrel left, and I can’t miss at this close range.’

  It does the trick and they retreat to the other side of the lane.

  The reporter helps me into the farmhouse whilst Jamie stands in defiance, his shotgun pointing menacingly across the lane towards the protest group, who are now muttering and swearing about mad farmers. Once into the safety of the farmhouse, Jamie walks backwards, keeping a wary eye on the protesters. None is keen to cross over the lane.

  Jamie enters the kitchen, where the reporter has grabbed a towel and is sponging blood off my face. Jamie immediately walks over to the dresser and produces a bottle of brandy and three small glasses. He pours two and hands me one, taking a slug himself before asking the reporter, ‘How about you, Sam?’

  Sam nods. ‘I reckon I could manage one after that performance. Given me a brilliant exclusive, if you guys don’t mind?’

  ‘No problem,’ we both agree.

  ‘I think you’ll live,’ Sam comments, holding my head back towards the daylight from the window for a closer look. ‘But you’re going to have one hell of a black eye tomorrow.’

  ‘I think it’s my back that’s going to be the problem,’ I say ruefully, moving to sit in a chair at the table.

  ‘I’m Sam Murray from the Daily Outrage, by the way,’ he advises, shaking my hand. ‘Jamie has been giving me his side of the story. He says you are helping him out.’

  ‘He certainly is,’ Jamie confirms. ‘Speeded up my contract no end.’

  I’ve neither the heart nor the strength to mention the scenario currently playing out over at FrackUK, and wonder how Jos Andrew is getting on with his investigation.

  The brandy is working, and although in pain and shocked I’m improving. Glancing at Jamie, whose face is flushed, I realise that his brandy might not be the first today.

  ‘What do we do now?’ Jamie asks. ‘Hadn’t we better ring the police?’

  ‘On their way,’ I advise.’ I phoned on my way here. Pity they weren’t a bit faster.’

  We hear raised voices from outside. Some of the protesters are making a run for it down the lane, where a public footpath crosses the fields to a main road where there is a layby.

  There are no surprises when a police car arrives, followed by a black police van. Half a dozen uniformed officers charge out of the back and begin to round up the remaining protesters. A few minutes later, two detectives make their way across t
he farmyard. Jamie opens the door and the familiar figures of Lambert and Evans stoop to enter the kitchen.

  Taking in the scene, Lambert’s opening remark is predictable. ‘Making a nuisance of yourself again, I see,’ he directs at me.

  ‘They assumed I was from the fracking company,’ I answer. My injuries being obvious, I also add, ‘I won’t be playing golf for a week or two either. Got a boot in the back as well for my trouble.’

  Jamie makes space around the table for the two policemen, leaving only one of the six chairs unoccupied. The place suddenly feels smaller with the two large policemen seated.

  ‘Any idea why they are back?’ Lambert asks. ‘We didn’t get wind of it from Tim Sheldon, although he still thinks they have some plan for an attack on the offices of FrackUK.’

  ‘There was an anonymous phone call to our office,’ Sam Murray advises. ‘Hence our presence, but that is all I can tell you, so if there is nothing else, I could do with getting my exclusive filed.’

  ‘Don’t think we need to detain you, do we, Maurice?’ Lambert enquires of Detective Sergeant Evans.

  Evans shakes his head, but then reflects and asks, ‘Unless you have any idea who the attackers were?’

  ‘I don’t, I’m afraid, but my photographer may have got something. I’ll let you know, Inspector.’ He nods in my direction. ‘Look after yourself.’

  ‘Much obliged,’ I say as Sam gets up to leave.

  ‘Hope you would do the same for me. Oh, and don’t worry, I won’t put your names in the article,’ he says as he exits the door.

  Jamie, noticing the three empty brandy glasses, says, ‘I’ll put the kettle on. Tea OK?’

  With no dissent he sets to it, and then excuses himself for the bathroom. I’ve been on pins for a minute or two, as Jamie doesn’t yet know anything about Hans Johansen’s disappearance or the missing cash. His brief absence gives me the chance to mention these facts to Lambert and Evans.

  ‘We‘ll keep schtum on the subject until you advise otherwise,’ Lambert promises.

  We discuss all manner of things about the protesters, skilfully avoiding any reference to Carl Benson. After half an hour a uniformed police officer knocks on the door. Evans goes to speak to him and returns to advise that all is now calm: four protesters have been taken in for questioning and the rest have dispersed.

  It’s now long past lunch time and I’m concerned that I should be finding out the results of Jos Andrew’s efforts at FrackUK offices. Jamie seems on an even keel now.

  ‘I’m feeling much better now. I’d better be heading back to Stockport,’ I announce.

  ‘Yes, it’s time we were off, too. Not sure what we actually contributed, but there you go. Come on, Evans,’ Lambert orders, rising from his chair.

  We all depart together, leaving Jamie with his own thoughts.

  Lambert pauses before driving off. ‘Call me later, as soon you know the outcome of the bank review.’

  ‘Yes indeed,’ I confirm, heading for the Saab.

  Chapter 19

  After leaving Jamie’s farm, I drive to the M6 motorway, getting my thoughts together. Feeling ravenous, I stop at the first services for a coffee and sandwich. The server sees my face, by now sporting a bruise and a black eye, and refrains from making eye contact. I take my late lunch back to the car for privacy. Taking a small bite of tuna mayo and a slurp of coffee, I realise I haven’t heard from Amelia about messages from Benson and/or Jos.

  Switching on my mobile, there is a message from Amelia asking me to call her.

  ‘Did you get lost? They’ve both been on, but preferred to speak to you direct. I feel so special,’ she quips.

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ I answer. ‘I’m sure they could have told you, or maybe it’s a man thing.’

  She calms a little. ‘Did you quell the riot at the farm?’

  ‘It very nearly came to that,’ I say, relating the events of the last few hours. ‘Wrong place at the wrong time, I guess. I’d better call them before I get back in the car. I’ll let you know where I’m going to end up.’

  ‘Yes, please. I might need a lift, as there are delays on the west coast train line. Track repairs on a Friday afternoon, for God’s sake.’

  ‘OK, I’ll do my best,’ I confirm, pressing the red button.

  I consider Benson at FrackUK first, but then I figure the state of the company’s bank account might be important and it would make more sense to have the details from Jos Andrew before speaking to him

  ‘Mr Andrew is in a meeting,’ the receptionist announces. ‘Who is calling?’ I reply and am put through immediately.

  ‘Hi there, been expecting your call. Worst fears, I’m afraid. Didn’t take long. How shall I say it… the account is cleaned out, save for a few hundred quid.’

  ‘Not surprised,’ I accept. ‘How was it done?’

  ‘Just as you thought: roughly weekly transfers by Hans Johansen up to the maximum of £25k allowed by online transfer to a private account at Citibank in Oslo.’

  ‘Have you told Benson?’

  ‘He was in a meeting when I left, so I thought I’d leave it to you.’

  I finish my coffee, wondering what effect the news will have on Carl Benson, who is already seriously worried about his future. I call him and advise that I have spoken to Jos Andrew.

  ‘I don’t suppose it was good news. Amelia mentioned that you had to go over to the farm. Are you still there?’

  ‘No, halfway back on the M6.’

  ‘Do you have to have time to pop in? Better face-to-face, don’t you think?’

  I’m not sure, but agree to his request. ‘Yeah, sure. Should be maybe half an hour, subject to traffic.’

  ‘Right see you then,’ he ends.

  Amelia may be at the mercy of Network Rail after all, I think as I re-join the M6 southbound. I call her to advise her of my situation.

  ‘I’ll wait until six o’clock, and if I’ve not heard from you I will have to take pot luck with the trains,’ she says, hanging up.

  I continue on the M6, turning left onto the M62 and then the M602 into central Manchester. I wind my way slowly through the city centre and park up at Piccadilly Plaza on New York Street. My drive to FrackUK has taken only thirty-five minutes.

  Carl Benson is waiting for me with coffee on the table, looking extremely worried. As I walk over to shake hands, he sees my face and pauses, alarmed.

  ‘What happened?’ he asks.

  ‘It looks worse than it actually is,’ I say, explaining about my encounter with the protesters.

  ‘Thanks for coming, in the circumstances. I couldn’t get to speak to Jos Andrew as I had a meeting starting just before he left, but his demeanour part way through his time here gave me the distinct impression that what he had found didn’t make for good reading.’

  ‘I’m afraid that is correct,’ I confirm, and relay my conversation with Jos Andrew of only an hour earlier.

  Carl sighs, takes a big gulp of his coffee and holds his head in his hands, in virtual meltdown. I’m slightly embarrassed, expecting tears next, but he gives a big shrug and rises from the table. He moves to the window, with his back to me, and blows his nose. I make a point of slurping my coffee, allowing him time to sufficiently recover. A minute passes and he returns to the table.

  Taking another swig of coffee, he composes himself and speaks. ‘I’ll be honest with you: I think this could be the end. Hans has disappeared, although I haven’t told head office about that yet. I’ll have to tell them about the missing cash, though, because I’ll have to ask for a bank transfer in order to pay the bills and staff salaries. They’ll have someone on the first plane over from the States, and I won’t last a day. What will I do?’ he pleads, eyes welling up. ‘I’m too old to get another job, and I’ve got two teenage kids in school.’

  I’m embarrassed at this outwardly macho male, the size of a house, emotionally coming apart in front of me, I avoid eye contact, cough, take a sip of coffee, and delay my reaction as long as possi
ble. Embarrassment turns not to pity but disdain: how he could dare put me through this scenario? I realise I am now a personal counsellor to some bloke who has just put my client out to pasture. It feels like minutes have passed, but is in fact only seconds. I look up to find him staring at me beseechingly.

  As calm as I can be, I reply, ‘You have to inform your head office that you have acted immediately and strongly to remedy the situation. You are right that someone will be sent over on the first plane. You will be in a much stronger position than if they arrive and have to take over. By taking swift action yourself they can criticise or support your action – either is better than just waiting for someone to arrive, which would make you look weak.’

  The blood returns to Benson’s face as he comments, ‘Yes, that’s right. You’ve hit the nail on the head. I’ve got to face up to it; there’s no alternative. The sooner the better, and you have to believe me, I’ll do my utmost to get your client his cash.’

  I’m relieved at his gesture, but seriously wonder whether he can actually deliver. ‘I appreciate that, but first things first: have you discussed this with your bank manager yet?’

  ‘Well, actually not yet,’ he apologises.

  ‘Right, that is your first job, and at the same time – I know it’s obvious, of course – put a stop on all Hans Johansen’s involvement with the bank account. Only then can you inform your head office of that and of course Han’s disappearance, and that the police are on to it. By doing all of that, head office will be able to see that you are still in control. Hopefully they will see their way to make a bank transfer, but my guess is that they will want to see you face-to-face first.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right, I understand, and thank you so much. I’ll get onto it straightaway, and as soon as I can I will organise your client’s money.’