by D J Harrison
‘Two years ago I was an accountant, going about my business, involved with normal companies and ordinary people. Then I got sent to prison because the police found some money in my house and I was stupid enough to tell them where it came from. That’s it – that’s the whole of it. No gangs involved, no mafia, no dangerous criminals. A sordid little crime, that’s all.’
‘There must be more to it.’ Gary’s face is softer. He seems more receptive, less adamant. ‘If Popov was involved it’s likely there was someone killed.’
The words hang in the air and I receive a blast of fear from inside me. Martin’s face, smiling, kind and loving comes into my mind. The fear is replaced by sadness, then by anger.
‘Martin.’ I manage to speak his name. ‘He died. There was some mystery about his death, but they said it was a heart attack.’ This time I look down at my feet. ‘We were having an affair, they found him dead in the flat we were using but I knew he hadn’t died there, someone had moved his body. I didn’t have the courage to tell anyone.’
‘Okay, sounds like that might be it, that could be the job he’s thinking about, no doubt he’d have seen you with the target if that’s the case.’
‘So now you know. What about us? Can’t we carry on as normal? I have a lot to do, you need a lot of work on the business if you’re going to avoid big problems. Come on, Gary, look at me, do I look like a gangster? Have I ever given you reason to doubt my word?’
‘Fair enough.’ Gary’s face crinkles in a half smile. ‘I suppose I was being too careful. That guy Popov is big trouble, I wouldn’t want him on my case. Maybe he’s worried you might finger him, that you saw him then. Okay, let’s put that behind us. I’m all right with that if you are.’
My relief is so intense I can hardly prevent myself from reaching out and hugging the big lump. When we walk outside there’s a steady stream of cars disgorging men full of excited energy and alcohol-fuelled enthusiasm.
Gary rings his mate to organise a car for me to collect Toby. I listen to the conversation.
‘Something nice, with a child seat. No not far, twenty miles or so, that’s all. What have you got in?’ He nods and looks at me. ‘Yes, she’ll be fine with that, nice one.’ Gary ends the call and looks at his watch.
‘Hang on here,’ he instructs, ‘my mate’s bringing you a car.’ He winks. ‘I think you’ll like it.’
‘Your mate?’ I ask. ‘Is he a car dealer?’
Gary smiles. ‘No, not exactly. He does the parking at Manchester Airport.’
37
Gary’s peace offering is a yellow Porsche, complete with carbon fibre child racing seat in the back. Alison looks like she is licking piss off a nettle as she stands gripping Tim’s arm tightly in case he abandons her for a woman in a shiny car. Toby shows no signs of excitement at the vehicle, only a rewarding beam and a big hug for his mother. I breathe deeply for the first time in days.
As we whoosh down the motorway, my little boy’s chatter enchants me. All his news since the last time we met has been stored up to burst out in a jumble of thoughts and ideas. Although I can make little sense of most of it, I feel delighted at the sound and energy. My longing grows for the opportunity for us to be together on a permanent basis, so that I can understand the words and references he’s making, so that I can be the origin of his experiences rather than the second-hand recipient.
At the flat he leaps upon his Fisher Price garage with the air of a business proprietor anxious to re-establish trade after a holiday. Cars are carefully crammed into the lift, then released down the ramp to speed off into the distance. My apartment is alive again, occupied, animated by childish noise. Suddenly it’s a home and not just a borrowed place to sleep in. Most importantly, Toby settles here instantly. He feels the homeliness as well. My heart and eyes fill up at the sight.
The weekend with Toby has left me feeling even more determined to make a home for us as I make my way to work. Because I now know its origins I’m doubly scared about damaging the Porsche as I manoeuvre through the thick Manchester traffic. Buses make collision paths towards me as if instinctively knowing I will back off and allow their brutal passage. Other cars herd me into a lane I don’t want, forcing me to make double circles at the big roundabout then hold my breath as I creep apologetically onto the exit for Trafford Park. A new day at work is ahead, but this time in a new place. Gary tells me he has abandoned the yard; ‘let a mate have it for a bit’ were his exact words. After the frightening display of armed men, I wonder if the opposing threat is too much even for Popov and his Eastern European army.
This is another question I have for Gary which I might never feel sufficiently comfortable to ask. I park the Boxster and, as instructed, hand the keys to a man who emerges from a van marked ‘Valet Parking’, then watch as he carefully covers the seat with plastic before clambering in and driving away. The van follows behind at an unsafe distance. There is a great deal of relief for me in its departure, more than I realised there would be. I appear to have been obsessed with anxiety for the wellbeing of that bloody Porsche and I’m disappointed that I have room in my life for such relatively trivial worries.
Carrie greets me with a slightly puzzled smile. This time there is more justification as she must have spent a few days here alone and become used to it. The new offices are on the ground floor of the large block where Gary took me to pee. Carrie has a small reception desk in the foyer while I occupy an office behind her to the right.
The seven battered, rusting, unmatched filing cabinets have survived what must have been a rough trip from Salford, as have my old desk and threadbare chair. I arrange myself so that I can see Carrie through the open door, and even call cheerful encouragement to her if I can be bothered. Gary visits mid-morning and sits on the edge of my desk.
I tell him, ‘These bills came to the flat,’ and pull out a sheaf of envelopes which he quickly passes to Carrie for her to lose.
‘Don’t bother about them, I’ll sort them out. Anyway,’ Gary continues, ‘I’ve got a new place for you. It’s nearer, you’ll like it.’
It’s hard to stop myself feeling upset and resentful. Despite Gary’s obvious good intentions and generosity, the flat I have is perfect. Toby is familiar and comfortable with it, why change? Again I don’t want to ask this question, suspecting there may be an arrangement even more informal than that involving the cars he loans me.
‘I’ve sorted a van to get your stuff this afternoon, I’ll take you over there and show it you.’ He points. ‘It’s only a cock-stride across the bridge, near the Lowry. It’s sound, you’ll like it. Anyway, what was it you wanted to ask me?’
My job is to formalise the informal, to account for the unaccountable and to regularise the irregular. It’s a long process, made more difficult by the evasive nature of Gary’s answers to even the most basic questions.
‘How much do you charge for this job?’ My question ought to be answered succinctly and numerically. Instead, Gary wrinkles his brow, scratches his head, details the family history of the client, explains all his other businesses, tells me about things they’ve done together in the past, and becomes puzzled by my frustration and dissatisfaction.
It’s not that simple is his mantra. In this respect he is absolutely one hundred per cent correct.
I would rather question him about Popov, about his part in Martin’s death, but I have a feeling that bringing these matters back into his consciousness would have only one result. The prospect of being cast adrift again daunts me. Time is needed for me to gather strength, accumulate funds and find my independent streak again. Only then will I be able to face the dangers my enquiries will bring.
38
‘My mate is owed money, I want you to work your magic.’ Gary hands me a thick sheaf of papers. ‘Here you are, all the details and invoices and such are here.’
‘Magic?’ I ask.
‘Yes, you know…what you did last time with that Usman fellow.’
‘It might not work again, I mi
ght not be able to help.’
‘Oh, you’ll think of something.’ Gary beams with confidence. ‘Anyway, I told my mate you’re the best, leave it to Jenny I said, she’ll have your cash as quick as Flash Harry.’
His confidence is touching but I feel too weighed down by grinding detail to be buoyed by it.
‘Make this your number one priority,’ Gary orders. ‘If you need any help just tell me what you want and I’ll make sure you get it.’
A vision of Popov and his armed gang dragging out the reluctant debtor with a bag over his head fills my thoughts. A pang of worry accompanies the knowledge that if it were that simple a job it wouldn’t need me.
After Gary breezes off about his business I settle down with the file. Carrie, bless her, brings me a cup of tea, probably out of boredom and possibly to open up the opportunity of a gossip. I sip the weak, sugary liquid gratefully, it reminds me of everything about Gary and his staff, everything comforting and everything irritating. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve told her strong, not much milk and definitely no sugar.
My original inkling that maybe Carrie was Gary’s bit on the side proved wide of the mark. Without my asking, the story emerges that she’s the daughter of a mate of his who was killed while trying to free a prop shaft on a piece of soil screening equipment. His success led to him being caught up in the machinery and torn to pieces, at least that’s how his daughter describes it. She goes on to reveal that she lives with Gary and his family since her mother was sent to prison. The man her mother murdered was living with them at the time and the look on Carrie’s face when she talks about him leaves me in no doubt what he was forcing her to endure at the age of twelve. As far as I’m concerned they should have given her mother a medal for what she rid the world of.
Anyway, Gary remains high in my estimation. I’m glad that his relationship with Carrie is both generous and benign. There is also the comforting thought that her lack of competence is not my problem and that Gary expects as little from her as she delivers. She’s telling me about her latest boyfriend and I’m tempted to give her my opinion on him. Based on the brief description she gives, I’m convinced he’s a thug and likely to do her serious harm. Obviously, she doesn’t share my judgement and seems delighted and amused by the hooliganism she’s describing. I remain silent, comforting myself with the thought that Gary will no doubt deal appropriately with him if there becomes a need to.
While Carrie is distracted by her phone, I begin to look through the documents Gary has given me. The sums are significantly large, running into tens of thousands of pounds. After a quick tally I reach a total of £256,722.36, excluding VAT. The invoices in dispute are from an earth works contractor, O’Shaughnessy, to a housing company, Monton Homes. The bills relate to a large housing development in North Manchester where O’Shaughnessy was contracted to prepare the ground that the homes were to be built on. It seems that the earth they used was unsatisfactory and had to be replaced by another contractor. At first sight I can’t see how O’Shaughnessy can expect to be paid, having made a right mess of the job in the first place. Flicking through the rest of the correspondence I’m tempted to tell Gary to forget it, that his mate is lucky not to be sued.
39
Michael O’Shaughnessy is a short, balding man with a voice that’s too high-pitched to emanate from such a portly frame. The words he utters are simple and clear but are made almost completely incomprehensible by the way he speaks them. I’ve been listening to his account for half an hour now, but feel little wiser.
Gary, bless him, appears to understand every syllable and, as if seeing my bewilderment, is attempting to provide a partial translation.
‘So there then, it’s them what said what stuff to carry and I did.’ O’Shaughnessy pauses as if to recover from his own verbal stumbling.
‘The whole contract was directed by Monton Homes, all Michael did was to pick up earth at one place and deliver it to the housing site. He wasn’t responsible for the quality of the material.’
Gary’s version has a clarity which I’d not associated with him before now. Thanks to Gary’s interventions I’m beginning to get the picture.
‘Let me see if I understand what happened,’ I intervene. O’Shaughnessy shows no sign of wanting to end his garbled account and I’m in danger of becoming mesmerised by my efforts to follow his speech. ‘Your lorries removed contaminated soil from the housing development site and then replaced it with clean material.’
‘Yes, that’s right so we did and it was…’
‘Okay,’ I continue, ‘but the clean material wasn’t clean and this had to be removed as well?’
‘Absolutely, we did the job twice…well nearly three times it was. All the cost was on us, two lots of tipping costs, the last stuff was bad gear, had to go to a proper tip.’
‘Yes, I see. There’re some invoices for disposal in the file of papers that you sent me. Is it normal for you to pay for all the tipping?’
O’Shaughnessy looks at Gary in a conspiratorial way.
‘Oh yes, that’s it, we give a load price to the customer, we sort out the tipping, that’s what we do, it’s part of it, so to speak…’
‘Tell me about Monton Homes, it was their site you got the earth from, wasn’t it?’
‘Ah yes they were building houses where there used to be a big factory, that’s why the contamination and such like. Needed clearing up… We did a great job, so we did. Clean as a whistle when we finished hauling out, all the tests, everything tidy.’
‘Then you were told to bring in earth to raise the levels so the houses could be built?’
‘That’s right it needed a lot of muck so it did, ten thousand cube, more even, lots of muck.’
‘And then they built the houses?’
‘Yes, well…most of them by the time the testing and such was finished. It was the gardens, they were no good, dangerous, might cause sickness and things.’
‘I see here that the Environmental Health insisted all the garden areas were cleaned up by removing the soil you had put there.’ I wave a letter at him then push it towards him. He looks down and nods. ‘Okay.’ I am at my most business-like now and enjoying it. ‘So the problem lies in the stuff you brought in and you’re saying this came from the other Monton Homes site?’
‘Yes, from Oldham. They’re building some new offices there, so they are.’
‘Who was it that told you where to get the soil?’
‘That would be Jackson. He works for Monton Homes. It was him who arranged everything. We were loaded from a stockpile, we didn’t worry about anything, it wasn’t our stuff this time. Normally we would find the clean stuff ourselves, and it would have analysis and tests and paperwork, this had nothing. It was Jackson that decided it was OK, it was him who organised the stuff to be put on the housing site.’
‘And now they refuse to pay you?’
‘Yes, that’s right and we aren’t doing any more work for them, they’re big customers of ours, it’s a big problem.’
Gary leans forward. ‘Michael is having to lay off drivers, he’s short of work as well as short of cash.’
O’Shaughnessy nods in appreciation of Gary’s summary.
‘Can you help?’ O’Shaughnessy asks.
‘Of course she can!’ Gary confirms before I can speak. ‘She’ll get your money, just you wait and see, I guarantee it.’
All I can do is mutter, ‘Leave it with me,’ as Gary shows a smiling, hopeful O’Shaughnessy out of the building.
40
The industrial estate at Walton Summit proves more complex than it appears on the map, with featureless roundabouts lacking any direction signs adding to my confusion. All I have is an address and the hastily fingered route I plotted in Gary’s offices. However straightforward it appeared then, finding the Environment Agency is proving to be a frustrating business. I’m criss-crossing beneath the marching pylons festooned by thick cable that overwhelm the entire area. I decide the place is either under
ground or non-existent and follow a tiny sign for the M6.
As I turn I catch a glimpse of a building on the right with the logo I’m searching for. This is round, green and has a white stick figure seemingly fleeing from a nuclear explosion. I’m almost sure that this isn’t what the designer had in mind, nor is it what the Environment Agency meant to choose to represent them.
The car park is crammed full to overflowing, all the marked spaces are taken and cars are parked on kerbs, on grassy verges, anywhere they can be abandoned without completely blocking up the access. I tour around the office main entrance where I find two possibilities. There is a single disabled space unoccupied. My alternative is an area hatched in yellow directly outside the doors which is clearly marked ‘No Parking Deliveries Only’. The disabled space is beckoning to me when I hear an engine start up and decide to investigate.
The small Toyota contains a weary looking man with sandy hair, whom I greet as I pull alongside.
‘Have you left a space?’ I smile my most friendly smile as I lean out of my window. As he stops to answer, I read the badge on his green fleece: ‘John Johnson’.
‘At the back, over there.’ He indicates with his thumb.
‘Thanks, how long will you be?’
He looks puzzled but answers nevertheless. ‘Only an hour. This place is a nightmare for parking.’
I squeeze into the Yaris-sized space with some careful to-ing and fro-ing. Inside, the reception area is cramped and already has five out of six visitors’ chairs occupied. This is where I must prepare to play it by ear, but my car park encounter has given me an idea.
‘I’m here to see John Johnson,’ I announce. After two telephone calls and a lengthy consultation with her computer she replies, ‘He’s not in, can anyone else help?’
