by R. W. Hughes
Geoff could feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. He must retain an outward show of calmness, even though by now, his stomach was doing summersaults. He looked innocently at the sergeant, waiting for him to ask him a question; at this stage he was not going to volunteer any unnecessarily information. At the same time he was wondering if the sergeant would recognise him from the electricity board site from where the copper wire had been stolen.
‘What’s your full name, Geoffrey, just for our notes?’ said the sergeant, looking at the young man standing in front of him, whose grammar did not seem to fit with his very smart appearance.
‘Larkin, sir!’ replied Geoff quickly.
‘And how long have you worked here Geoffrey?’ continued the sergeant.
‘Mr. Goodier was kind enough to employ me sir,’ replied Geoff smiling and trying to sound relaxed, even though his stomach muscles were in knots. ‘I’ve been here for two months, working under the supervision of Mrs. Grant, who has been kind enough to instruct me in the correct procedure for the selling of properties.’
He’s a smooth talker I’ll give him that, thought the sergeant as he viewed the young man standing in front of him.
‘Geoffrey was here all the time on Saturday. He would have seen any van that arrived that day,’ Mrs. Grant interrupted.
‘Well, if you recall Mrs. Grant,’ Geoff interrupted, ‘Mr. Proudlove’s wife called in the afternoon, I was keeping her entertained until you returned. I was in the lounge for quite a long period.’
Mrs. Grant interrupted again before Geoff could continue. ‘I had to sort out a problem that a potential client had brought to my attention. I had an appointment with Mr. Proudlove but the meeting took longer than we had anticipated,’ a flustered, red-faced Mrs. Grant added.
‘So, none of the staff saw this van on the Saturday as the storage shed was completely emptied! The theft was not discovered until Monday morning and it was then two hours later that a phone call was made to the local police station. Those seem to be the facts, do you agree?’ said the sergeant, quietly looking at Mrs. Grant, then at Geoffrey, before returning his gaze to Mrs. Grant. Geoff just stayed quiet with a baffled look on his face.
‘Yes, you seem to have all the facts correct,’ she replied.
‘I would like you to have another word with Mr. Goodier, Mrs. Grant. I would like you to ask him to double check the list of stolen equipment just to keep our records correct.’
There was no other way that Sergeant Robinson could put this point to Mrs. Grant, only as bluntly as he did; he was giving the managing director, Daniel Goodier, an opportunity to correct his inflated claim of stolen goods, ignoring the surprised glance directed his way by his constable.
Leaving a slightly confused Mrs. Grant in the kitchen Geoff showed the CID sergeant and his associate out of the show house. No doubt they would go back to the police station and start making their enquiries through their contacts, trying to trace any cheap kitchen equipment that had appeared on the local black market.
When he returned, Mrs. Grant was on the phone trying to contact the firm’s managing director, Daniel Goodier. As Geoff entered the lounge she indicated for him to put the kettle on to make tea. This suited Geoff as he was curious to hear what she would say to the director. He had cottoned-on straight away what was happening; the managing director was trying to claim that much more had been stolen than actually had been.
The bloody tea leaf, he thought. Goodier was trying to operate some insurance scam but that didn’t surprise Geoff! On several occasions there had been envelopes left with Geoff at the show house for Daniel Goodier to collect and there was no mistaking the feel of paper money in those envelopes. Geoff knew that the copper was nobody’s fool but, for some reason, he was giving the director a chance to re-adjust the list of missing items.
Mrs. Grant replaced the phone and turned to Geoff as he entered the lounge with a tray carrying cups, saucers, a sugar bowl, a milk jug, a pot of tea plus two plates with several chocolate biscuits on each.
All the pottery was bone china, Mrs. Grant was, as Geoff had found out, a traditionalist; referring to them as the proper utensils. It had all been new to Geoff when he first started but he found he quite liked the style of his supervisor. He was learning etiquette as she called it. He also liked the plush, thick carpets in the lounge, which your feet sank into, the smart fabric furniture and the luxury kitchen with all its appliances.
All this was so different from his small poky bed-sit which he shared with his mate, Harry Sutton. ‘Mr. Goodier is making a new list. Apparently some of the items were moved into the store house on Friday afternoon which he was not aware of. You can collect the list in half an hour, Geoffrey,’ she said as he poured the tea.
Geoff cast his mind back to the Saturday. Mrs. Grant had left at her usual time for her regular appointment with the junior director, Mr. Proudlove. He had given her a few minutes to be clear of the compound then closed and opened again the front bedroom curtains several times. A few minutes later, a white van, driven by John Bolton borrowed from his boss’s garage which was closed on a Saturday afternoon, drove slowly past the show house on its way to the compound.
Geoff had been watching from the rear upstairs window, which gave an unrestricted view of the compound, when the van with its false number plates had pulled up in front of the compound gates. He could see Derek Bolton opening the gates with the replica keys. He’d just opened the second gate to allow the van to drive into the compound when there was a ringing from the front doorbell of the show house. Geoff froze. There were no viewers booked in for the Saturday afternoon, he’d seen to that when making the appointments. The ringing of the bell for the second time startled him into action; he went down the stairs crossing quickly to the front door.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs. Proudlove.’ He recognised the smartly dressed woman as the wife of the junior director. This was a delicate, very delicate situation! He could not have this woman wandering around the building site looking for her husband, at least, not until the lads had finished loading the van and cleared off the estate. He had to keep her from the kitchen, especially, as the view from those windows directly overlooked the compound.
The woman didn’t answer, just pushing past Geoff who quickly closed the front door and then followed the woman into the lounge. ‘Is Mrs. Grant not here?’ she said turning around and lighting a cigarette.
‘No! She’s just slipped out but I’m expecting her back in a few moments. Can I make you a cup of tea or coffee? Would you like to take a seat? Mrs. Proudlove?’ he said, indicating the easy chair at the side of the settee.
‘Coffee will do fine,’ said the woman, sitting down in the center of the settee. Geoff moved a small table from the end of the settee, placing it near the director’s wife. The woman flicked the end of her cigarette into the ash tray which he had placed in the centre of the table.
‘It’s not Mrs. Grant I want to see, I’m just surprised that you’ve been left here on your own!’ she said abruptly, looking him up and down. ‘I need you to get in touch with my husband; he’s a director of this building firm you know. Tell him I’ve finished my shopping early and I’m here waiting for him.’
‘Yes, ma’am, I’ll just put the kettle on first,’ he said, making his way into the kitchen. He was taking a dislike to this woman. She was haughty and snobbish, treating him as if he was her servant and speaking to him as if he was something stuck to her shoe.
He switched on the electric kettle and placed the best bone china on the tray. On an impulse, he picked up one of the cups, thought for a moment then returned it on its saucer.
‘The bitch isn’t worth it!’ he muttered, replacing the bone china with ordinary cups and saucers. He looked through the kitchen window; the van was still in the compound.
‘Come on lads; get a move on,’ he muttered. He took the tray back into the lounge and placed it on the edge of the small table. Mrs. Proudlove had finished her cigarette and the remains
were still smoldering in the ash tray. He moved the ash tray, pushing the tea tray into the centre of the table.
‘I’ll make that phone call for you now, Mrs. Proudlove. I’ll see if I can contact Mr. Proudlove, it shouldn’t be a problem,’ he said, forcing himself to smile in the direction of the woman as she proceeded to light another cigarette. He removed the tea tray and replaced it with the ash tray.
If the van had not been in the compound he would have phoned the other show house where Mrs. Grant was in conference with Mr. Proudlove, or to put it in the language of the workers on the building site, Mr. Proudlove was being screwed by a sex starved middle-aged woman called Mrs. Grant!
He rang the site office; there was no answer, as he knew there wouldn’t be. Mr. Proudlove was otherwise engaged! He returned to the lounge, ‘Mr. Proudlove is unavailable at the moment but I left a message to contact me on his return. I was assured he wouldn’t be long Mrs. Proudlove.’
The woman looked at the young man standing in front of her but she didn’t like what she saw. He was young and well-dressed but he was also a bag of nerves, perhaps being in the presence of a lady and a director’s wife had that effect on him.
On the other hand, the way he spoke reminded her of her own upbringing and surroundings, that was, until she’d met Edward Proudlove. She’d always had ambitions and could see he was in a far better position, financially and socially, than the other men she’d dated, so she had set her sights to snare the unsuspecting Edward Proudlove, and had succeeded. She had managed by getting herself pregnant by him and was married within months of their first meeting, mainly to save any embarrassment to her husband’s family. It was he who had paid for her to go to elocution lessons in order for her to fit in more readily with the level of society to which he belonged.
‘How long have you worked here, what’s your name again?’ queried Mrs. Proudlove, looking at the young man standing in front of her?
‘My name is Geoff, Geoffrey Larkin, Mrs. Proudlove; this is my second month in the sales office.’ The woman on the settee stubbed out the remains of her cigarette and looked in her cigarette case; it was empty.
‘I don’t suppose you smoke Geoffrey?’ she asked hopefully. He just shook his head in reply. He could see the woman was getting irritable.
‘Would you like another cup of coffee, Mrs. Proudlove?’ he asked politely.
‘No! I think I’ll go and look around the site and see if I can find Edward for myself.’
Geoff’s mind was in a whirl. He was beginning to sweat and he could feel his shirt sticking to his back. How could he keep this woman in the house a little longer?
Looking over the woman’s shoulder through the lounge window, he breathed a sigh of relief; he could see the rear of the white van as it drove to the T-junction at the beginning of the estate, turn and then drive down the main road and out of sight.
‘You could try the site office just five properties down and on the right; Mr. Proudlove was there the last time I saw him,’ volunteered Geoff. ‘I can give you directions from the rear of this property.’
‘Yes, you do that,’ said Mrs. Proudlove as she followed him to the rear door of the show house.
As he opened the door, Mrs. Grant was coming towards them, walking along the garden path.
‘Mrs. Grant is here now, Mrs. Proudlove!’ Geoff added. Mrs. Grant was startled at the appearance of her lover’s wife but quickly regained her composure.
Geoff left the two women together while he made his way up the staircase to the bedrooms; he desperately needed somewhere to sit down, relax and unwind after the stress of the last hour. He looked at his hands; his outstretched fingers were shaking uncontrollably.
But he, Geoffrey Larkin, had pulled it all together. Again!
Later that same evening, all the gang had arranged to meet in the café.
‘Was there someone to meet you at the lock-up?’ Geoff asked John Bolton as the lads settled down around one of the café tables.
‘Yeh. We didn’t unload it into the lock-up as there was another van there so we unloaded it straight into the back of that.’
‘Did you recognise the driver or anybody?’ queried Geoff.
‘No! There was no one about and the driver hardly spoke a word,’ replied John.
‘What will we get for this last deal, Geoff?’ enquired his younger brother eagerly, reflecting on the reasonable easy cash achieved from their last job.
Geoff thought for a moment before he replied. ‘We’ll do better than we did on the last copper caper but we will get a lot less than the equipment is worth; that’s the way it goes! I’ve got to see the fence the middle of next week and see what he comes up with then. But as it’s Sooty’s birthday next weekend, we’ll have a PARTY!’ Geoff shouted.
The instantaneous noisy cheers from the other lads brought disapproving looks from the older customers that where sitting on the nearby tables.
Chapter Eight
The day after the visit by the police Geoff was washing the teacups in the show house kitchen when his wandering thoughts were brought back down to earth by the call of Mrs. Grant. ‘Geoffrey! Go to the site office, the revised list is ready for collection from Mr. Goodier.’ He quickly dried and replaced the crockery in its cupboard; Mrs. Grant was a stickler for everything being in its rightful place.
He was glad to leave the show house and get a breath of fresh air. He was a little concerned about the police sergeant; he was obviously quite sharp and seemed very thorough in his job but, fortunately, he hadn’t recognised him from when he had worked for the electricity board, anyway, it wouldn’t really matter if he had!
He was walking on the pavement towards the site office and in front of him were three labourers who had excavated a large hole in the road at the side of the pavement to expose a cracked drain. This had been causing a large puddle in the road for several months. After numerous complaints from the residents to Geoff’s employers, they had eventually made a start on rectifying the problem.
He was level with the hole when one of the workers threw half a bucket of smelly, muddy water onto the pavement in front of him, the water splashed up and over his shoes. Geoff instinctively jumped back out of its way shouting, ‘Hey, watch it mate!’ It was only then that he recognised the man in the hole.
He, in turn, had been watching Geoff walk towards them. As Geoff drew level, he had thrown the half bucket of water, shouting out at the same time to his friend standing beside him in the hole.
‘Hey, Wilf, look who’s here; it’s that ponce, Larkin, all dressed up like a dog’s dinner!’
Geoff immediately recognised the man who looked up at his friend’s shout from his time at the remand centre; it was Wilf Norton and the one who had been doing all the shouting was his cousin, Dave Higgins. Geoff continued quickly walking past the workmen, followed by shouts from the two youths.
‘How does a thief like you end up with a dressed-up job like that, Larkin!’ He felt a thud on his back and turned as a lump of wet clay fell on to the pavement behind him, followed by loud laughter from the two men in the hole.
As Geoff quickened his pace, the shouting subsided as the men received no response from their intimidation and crude abuse, and the distance between them and Geoff increased. He thought this was bad news. At the moment no one suspected him but that would soon change if Wilf Norton and his cousin started to blab to the rest of the workers on the site about his previous petty juvenile criminal record. He was in no doubt that it was inevitable that they would, and it would be only a matter of time before it came to the attention of that cop Sergeant Robinson.
He’d now reached the site cabin, knocking on the side of the already open door as he entered. ‘Mrs. Grant told me to come and collect a list, Mr. Goodier.’ There was only the senior director, Daniel Goodier, in the cabin.
‘Yes, that’s right, I’m just finishing. Sit down, Geoffrey; I’ll only be a few more minutes.’ He indicated a hard, wooden chair in front of a large board that formed
what was a desk, littered with various scale drawings of the different types of houses that were being built on the site.
Geoff looked at the papers that were opened in front of him. During the time working under Mrs. Grant he had acquired the knowledge to read these drawings and he’d found them very interesting. He felt a great sense of achievement when explaining to potential clients the various aspects of individual properties from similar drawings held in the show house.
He had been in this cabin on several occasions, nothing had changed, there were still the shelves filled with more rolled-up plans, an open filing cabinet filled with hardback folders, several waterproof coats hung on the back of the door, a row of plastic, hard hats on another shelf and below that, a row of some black and several green pairs of wellingtons.
Daniel Goodier was sitting at the other end of the large, make-shift desk top. He was a man in his middle fifties going bald and what hair he had left was white. He was taller than Geoff who was short anyway. Goodier was seriously overweight. He seemed to wheeze as he breathed; Geoff put this down to his heavy smoking as the cabin was always full of a cloud of hazy, light blue tobacco smoke, with a nearby ash tray overflowing with crumpled ends of used cigarettes.
Goodier wore what looked like a very expensive, gold wristwatch and a large, sovereign gold ring. Geoff could also see part of a thick, gold chain hanging around his neck. As he looked up he saw that the man was watching him so he quickly averted his eyes from the jewellery.
‘You like gold then do you Geoffrey?’ said the director quietly. Ever since Geoff started working for this building firm in the sales office he had developed a dislike for this man, Daniel Goodier. Whenever he was in his company, Goodier always took the opportunity to put his arm around Geoff’s shoulders, pulling him towards him in a very over friendly manner; he was what Geoff called a ‘toucher’. He was always touching him at the slightest opportunity, nothing too obvious, but it sent goosebumps up Geoff’s spine. There had been a teacher at the school similar to Goodier. The lads had called him ‘an arse bandit’ and Geoff reckoned this company director was one of those.
