Cherringham--Too Many Lies

by Matthew Costello

  “I’m wondering,” said Sarah. “You work closely with your father, yes? What is your role exactly?”

  “Finances. Mostly.”

  “So you’re the numbers guy?”

  “It’s a tad more complex than that.”

  Sarah felt that Ross’s non-answer was an opening.

  “He’s pretty old-school, I imagine?”

  “Dad’s got forty years’ experience in construction. He’s earned his success the hard way.”

  “Tough industry. I imagine, in the old days, he dealt with problems … head on?”

  “It’s not the old days any more, Ms Edwards. Consultation’s the key word now — not conflict.”

  “PowerPoints, not punch-ups, hmm?”

  Callum sat there perfectly still. Sarah wanting to push further.

  “And you and your dad—”

  “We enjoy working together. We’re a great team. We’re justly proud of what we do. And that’s why our company’s one of the top developers in the country.” Callum’s voice — now with a real edge. “Is this going anywhere? Only I am very busy, you know …”

  “Sorry. Was just curious. As you mentioned before, anyone who’ll make money on the project could have it in for Syms. I’m wondering … do you count yourself, your father, among that group?”

  Ross nodded, but not in agreement, more like observing a ball well played at Wimbledon.

  “You have a nice afternoon, Ms Edwards.”

  Sarah felt there was still more to be learned from the icy man sitting facing her. But all that might be better done after some research.

  “You too,” Sarah responded, ready to escape the faux country house feel of the Bell Hotel’s bar.

  And she headed back out to the reception area.

  *

  Jack didn’t know what to make of Ted Ross. Fiercely angry, and not afraid of showing it.

  Was he the type of man that would give a command to some underling in a hoodie to scare Syms off?

  And while the developer, on his second beer, had ranted on about “interlopers and provocateurs”, sounding like someone more concerned about Bolsheviks than locals trying to save their historic hall, there was one thing Ted Ross did not mention.

  “Prior to this project, then — if I’m hearing you right — you never met Ralph Syms?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Okay. Then there’s that person … who hired Syms,” Jack said. “Any idea who that might be?”

  Ross shook his head. “Some rich local who loves the Village Hall? That kind of arrangement … always done quietly, discretely in my experience. That would make the most sense.”

  Jack would have to agree with that. Fund the good fight, but stay out of the newspapers.

  “But if it’s not some local out to protect the old building, then who else?”

  The question gave Ted Ross pause. “Bloody hard for me to know, hmm? Someone who has something to gain from stopping me, stopping the project, I guess.”

  “What about a grudge? Someone with something against you, or Leisure Holdings? Are there people around like that?”

  That question seemed to register something in Ross’s face — his eyes darting right.

  An idea he perhaps hadn’t thought of.

  If you had something against Leisure Holdings then stopping this project … not a bad way to go.

  When Ross turned back to Jack, his voice was low. His face — for the first time — dark and troubled.

  “You don’t do business, Mr Brennan — my business — without making a few enemies. I got ’em. My company too. Could they have something to do with hiring this Ralph Syms bastard?”

  Jack paused, as Ross considered this.

  “Now that you mention it, well, they sure as hell could …”

  *

  Sarah was standing by her car in the main square as she called Jack’s phone.

  “Jack …”

  “Hey, all done here. Least for ‘round one’ with Ted Ross. You?”

  “Ditto with his son. Have some thoughts and feelings about him though.”

  “Oh, same here. But nothing I’d call a breakthrough. Says he’s got no history with Syms.”

  “Same story with Callum. Smooth operator, that’s for sure.”

  Sarah looked over to the Village Hall, only yards away. By the entrance, she could see a huddle of green-shirted protestors, handing out leaflets to passers-by.

  “Jack — I’m heading home. Got a couple of hours before I go out. Think I’ll hit the net, see what I can find out about the Ross family — father and son, the whole company.”

  “Absolutely. Syms too. Enjoy dinner with the parents, hmm?”

  “Mid-week — I could do without it. Think Mum and Dad forget what it’s like to work.”

  “Well, opportunity to catch up with Chloe. You’ll have a great time. Give them my love.”

  “I will. And tomorrow, how about we meet up first thing? Head out to the old aerodrome where Tom Hayes has his yard?”

  “Good idea. Someone else who stands to benefit if Syms is scared off.”

  “That vote’s just a couple of days away. And something tells me there’s more scaring to come.”

  “Me too,” said Jack. “Like I said — be careful.”

  “Will do. Pick you up around 7.30?”

  “Sure,” said Sarah, putting her phone away and climbing in her car.

  What a day. So much to think about. Worry about.

  Grace. Chloe. Mum and Dad. Work. And a village divided.

  As she drove down the High Street and past the Village Hall, she saw a banner attached to the roof:

  Save Our Hall.

  Who else might need saving if she and Jack didn’t find out what was really going on?

  9. Empty Nest

  Sarah stood at the sink, washing up, looking out at her bedraggled garden, feeling guilty.

  When was the last time she’d had found any spare time to work on it?

  The flower beds hadn’t been weeded for months and — God — the grass was so ragged and long.

  She looked across the kitchen to where her dog, Digby, was tucking into his dinner. With her son Daniel away, travelling again on another gap year odyssey, and Chloe in and out — poor Digby’s days must be so lonely.

  Though she always managed to pop back to the house and give him a couple of walks each day.

  But life had turned different now the kids had grown up …

  Maybe I’ll start taking him into work, she thought, drying her hands and folding the dishcloth. I’ll need some company, with Grace going too.

  For a second, she felt overwhelmed by a sudden, surprising — and real — sense of loss.

  The house so quiet. Chloe not home yet. This dream cottage she’d bought when both children were still at school, now feeling so empty.

  She took a deep breath and pushed the thoughts away, knowing that, at heart, her real anxiety was Chloe.

  Was she safe? How had she been all day? Was she worried? Scared?

  “Come on, Digby, think I’ve got a doggie biscuit somewhere in here …” she said, reaching up into a cupboard and giving him a treat and a cuddle.

  She made a cup of tea, checked the big clock in the kitchen, headed into her office, followed by Digby, and woke her computer.

  No time this evening to feel miserable. In fact — just two hours to find out what she could about Ross Leisure Holdings before she and her daughter headed out for dinner with her parents.

  Chloe would be home soon anyway — that should blow all this self-pity away!

  Least — that’s what she hoped!

  *

  An hour later, Sarah sat back from her computer, stretched her arms and rubbed her neck.

  “Callum Ross, you were not joking,” she said to herself. “Complex is the word.”

  Sarah had online subscriptions to a number of sites that gave her access to company accounts and directorships. She’d been totally engrossed in her search since the r
esults, were, well …

  Surprising indeed.

  Ross Leisure Holdings turned out not to be one company, but nearly twenty. Each one with different tax years, intertwining boards, different locations. Offices in London, Birmingham, Glasgow, Bristol, Belfast, Cardiff.

  No wonder Callum spends so much time on his laptop, thought Sarah. He’s running an empire here.

  Money seemed to flow back and forth between the companies at a staggering rate: whether it was to fund projects — or maybe to avoid tax — Sarah knew she wasn’t qualified to tell.

  Millions …

  She was going to have to print out some of these spreadsheets for her dad to look at. His years in business had given him a pretty good eye for the real story that lay behind a set of accounts.

  But as far as she could tell — first glance — Ross Leisure had been going through stormy seas for the last three or four years and was now heading for the rocks.

  The balance sheets on more than half of these subsidiaries were in the red, big time.

  It seemed that something had happened — some specific event — that had wrought real damage to the company.

  Ross Leisure Holdings was in trouble.

  And Callum Ross had lied to her.

  But why? What was the story he was hiding?

  Sarah hit “print all” on the open documents, then opened another browser. Time to hit the Financial Times archive — and maybe some construction industry trade journals.

  *

  It didn’t take long to find out.

  Four years ago, Ross Leisure had taken out massive loans to invest in what must have seemed a sure-fire winner: a massive plan to build a luxury hotel on the edge of a regenerated Glasgow.

  At Board level there seemed to have been major disagreements but Ted Ross (according to insiders’ off-the-record comments) had driven the project through like a bulldog.

  Then — an intense campaign of local protest.

  Followed by a bombshell decision. Environmental activists succeeded in persuading central government that the loss of an environmentally sensitive area was not justified, no matter how many jobs were promised.

  The project was cancelled.

  And Ross Leisure lost millions. Attempts were made within the Board to oust Ted from his role and install Callum Ross in his place.

  The two had argued in front of the Board and share-holders, Callum accusing his father of wasting cash on high-profile and risky projects. And of resorting to methods that didn’t belong in an A-list company.

  For instance — Ted Ross picking a fight on live TV with the leader of the protestors.

  One Ralph Syms.

  Sarah sat back again from her computer.

  So — she thought — everybody they had spoken to had lied. Ted. Callum. Ralph.

  They all knew each other — they all had history.

  And Ross Leisure was anything but a happy, successful company.

  The place was riven with conflict.

  Sarah reached for her phone, to text Jack.

  But she heard the front door open.

  Chloe!

  “In here, love!” she called, spinning her chair round, relieved.

  “Hi, Mum,” came Chloe’s voice.

  The tone — perfunctory.

  And instead of coming into her mum’s office, Sarah heard her heading upstairs to her room.

  Must be going to get changed for dinner, she thought, getting up from her desk — seeing the time, and realising that she too needed to get ready!

  She went upstairs, hearing Chloe now in the bathroom, water running. She tapped on the closed door.

  “Chloe — how are you?” she said softly, through the door.

  The door opened suddenly and there was her daughter, brushing her teeth, the electric brush whizzing.

  “Me? Yeah, just fine,” said Chloe, still brushing.

  “I was just — dunno — worried about you,” said Sarah, watching while her daughter rinsed, then wiped her face on a towel and stepped past her.

  “Worried? Why?”

  Sarah followed Chloe into her bedroom and watched while she pulled out drawers, selecting clothes.

  “That note, of course!”

  “That? No big deal,” said Chloe with a shrug. “Ralph says that kind of crap happens all the time.”

  Ralph says …

  One of the liars.

  “Well it worried me.”

  “Mum — could you just chill a bit, hmm? You don’t need to worry about me, okay?”

  “Well. Easier said, Chloe,” said Sarah. Then she smiled, trying to lighten the tone. “You’ll just have to humour me, love. I’m a mum. I’ll always worry.”

  That seemed to give Chloe pause.

  “I know,” said Chloe, pausing for a second as she rummaged among a drawer full of jeans and leggings, clothes spilling everywhere. “But nothing’s going to happen to me. This is Cherringham, remember? Nothing ever happens here.”

  Sarah laughed. “Really? Not so sure about that.” Then, she made an attempt to lighten their chat. “Why don’t you wear that nice top that Gran gave you for your birthday, hmm?”

  “Er — Mum — I don’t think so.”

  “Oh. Really? I’m sure she’d love to see you in it.”

  Sarah watched as Chloe changed her top, switching into a fresh T-shirt, then new jeans, the uniform of Syms’s young army.

  “Oh — didn’t Grandpa tell you? I can’t go with you tonight.”

  “What?”

  “Got a big meeting — back at the office.”

  “What? You’re not coming to dinner?”

  “Love to, Mum. Really! But Ralph needs to go through some copy for the website. Needs all our input. Important stuff!”

  “At this hour?”

  “Er … Mum … seven o’clock?”

  “You know what I mean,” said Sarah. “This volunteering … a 24-hour thing? And you could have let me know, Chloe.”

  Words said — and Sarah knew that she had just taken a big step backwards with her own daughter.

  At odds again.

  “No big deal, Mum,” said Chloe, now brushing her hair, grip in her teeth.

  “Well it is to me. I hardly see you.”

  “I’ve got a life, you know?” said Chloe, grabbing a sweatshirt and heading for the door. “It’s not like I’m still at school.”

  “So — you’re going out with Ralph rather than having a dinner with your grandparents?”

  “Oh, so that’s what this is really about — Ralph.”

  “No. It’s about us. Your grandparents.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Look, I’m going to be late. Okay?”

  Sarah watched her daughter brush past, head out of the door and down the stairs, not quite understanding how the conversation — and her evening — had just flipped upside down.

  Just like that.

  “So don’t wait up, hmm?” said Chloe, grabbing her coat.

  Then, without a goodbye, her daughter picked up her car keys, opened the door, and was gone.

  Sarah heard Chloe’s little Fiat start up outside, the crunch of gravel, and then silence.

  She looked down the stairs. Digby had appeared and was looking up at her, tail wagging.

  “Don’t you start,” she said, feeling something in her eyes.

  Funny … was that a tear?

  Oh the dance that mothers and daughters do.

  But then, with a deep breath, she headed into her bedroom to get changed.

  Dinner with Mum and Dad. Just the three of them.

  God — it was as if her life had come full circle.

  10. An Early Drive

  Jack pulled into the small front drive of Sarah’s cottage and beeped his horn. Just a minute later, he watched as Sarah emerged from the house, locked up and climbed into the car.

  “Morning,” he said. “Made you a coffee.”

  He nodded to the re-usable mug sitting in the dash holder and Sarah picked it up.

  “God
— do I need this,” said Sarah, taking a mouthful of coffee as Jack turned the car round and headed out onto the lane that led back towards Cherringham.

  “Heavy night?” said Jack. “Didn’t see your car out front.”

  “You might say that. Overdid it a bit over dinner. Had to get a cab home.”

  He pulled carefully onto the main road from Cherringham Bridge that ran up towards the village — the road not busy, but he knew that cars flew at this time of morning, people racing to work.

  “Fun evening though, hmm?” he said.

  “Not particularly,” said Sarah. “Do me a favour, would you? Run into the village first — past Syms’s place?”

  “Sure,” said Jack, surprised, expecting Sarah to explain. But she didn’t continue

  *

  As they drove up the High Street, Sarah peered at the parked cars lining each side of the street.

  “Mind telling me what we’re looking for?” said Jack, sensing her anxiety.

  “Chloe. She didn’t come with me to dinner at Mum and Dad’s.”

  “No?”

  “No. She had quote — work to do — unquote, with Syms. And since she didn’t make it home last night. I’m thinking maybe she stayed at his place.”

  “Aha. I see. So you’re checking up on her.”

  “Exactly,” said Sarah.

  “You sure that’s a good idea?”

  “Good? Not sure. Do I need to? Definitely.”

  “Okay …” said Jack, feeling it was in fact a bad idea.

  “I’m looking for her little Fiat. You know it? Red and white 500.”

  “Sure.”

  As they approached Syms’s pop-up headquarters, Jack slowed, as Sarah checked each car.

  “And just what do you intend to do if you do see her car?” said Jack.

  But just then he saw her peer through the windscreen ahead.

  “Jack, wait. Pull in.”

  He found a gap in the cars and parked.

  “Look,” she said, nodding towards Syms’s building just across the road.

  The door of the pop-up shop was opening — and a woman emerged.

  But it wasn’t Chloe.

  A woman in a fashionable skirt, jacket. Attractive, even at a distance. Sunglasses on, briskly looking left and right.

  Jack recognised her.

  “Well whaddya know.”

  It was Natalie Coleman. She hurried to a grey Audi two-seater, slipped in, and pulled away quickly. Jack glanced back at the pop-up shop: in the window above, a curtain moved — Ralph Syms’s face clearly visible.