The Magpie Trap: A Novel (19 page)

An
open goal,
he remembered thinking. That was how he had to think of it now.

Suddenly
gripped by a new-found resolve, Danny drained his third, or was it fourth,
whisky and left the bar. Pausing to chuck a few more coins in the meter, he made
his way across
Leeds
, feeling much more confident. He passed two
braggart magpies bickering aggressively over an abandoned tray of chips and
gravy near the
Leeds
market.

Instinctively,
he remembered the childhood rhyme:

‘
One for sorrow,
Two for joy,
Three for a girl,
Four for a boy,
Five for silver,
Six for gold,
Seven for a secret
Never to be told.’

Danny was touchingly
convinced by signs such as this. Two magpies was a promising start. What he
needed now was another three, or four; a flock, to make it a real premonition.
He increased his pace somewhat, buttoning his coat against the strong wind,
also unconsciously hiding his stylish suit from the other hostile groups which
populated the area surrounding Leeds market; sullen, hollow-eyed teenagers.

Leeds
was a city in
which the language of threat was currency.

It was not about who you were, but what you wore, and the dividing lines
became even more blurred on a Friday or Saturday night. Danny never felt quite
right in a suit, he always felt as though he was trying on one of his dad’s for
a special occasion, and no matter how many times he wore one, he always
projected an aura of being uncomfortable in this second skin. He preferred the
ubiquitous hoodie, baggy jeans and standard white trainers which formed the
urban guerrilla’s camouflage. Today, he stared the bus stops down, he
eye-balled the cracks in the pavement; anything but look in the direction of
the silently menacing groups of teenagers.

EyeSpy Security had made
their reputation on Town Centre CCTV systems, focussing their camera lenses on
crowd scenes such as this. They had ridden the crest of a wave of the public’s
fear of such congregations of young people and had overcome the vocal
objections of a small minority in terms of the infringement of human rights
with the argument that ‘it is for the benefit of the wider community’.

EyeSpy had saturated the
centre of
Leeds
with cameras, drowning
the voices of argument and further destabilising the pockets of society which
populated the centre’s public spaces. But the company hadn’t stopped there.
They had also taken advantage of the massive amount of building work within
Leeds
and had won
several lucrative contracts with new residential developments, office blocks
and retail establishments. The long necks of cranes which were an ever-present
view in the
Leeds
panorama bore testimony
to the ongoing work which would keep EyeSpy trading for years to come.

But
Edison
’s Printers was
the jewel in their crown. It was their Case Study site. If they could secure
such a high-risk site, then they could secure anywhere. Winning that contract
had lined Danny’s pockets at the time, and now he planned to re-visit the
scene; this time to commit a crime.

Manners’

Manners’ Restaurant was located in the heart of
lawyer and accountant-land; the area of Leeds City Centre known as the
Financial District. It was also not far away from the
Yorkshire Evening Post
offices, and therefore Dawn Foster was
already there, waiting to pounce when Chris and his father entered. She was
sitting in the upstairs bar area, drinking an expensive red wine and looking
for the entire world like she was celebrating breaking a big story.

           
Chris
and his father met further up

Chris was immediately
struck by the fact that his father looked smaller somehow; almost beaten down
by the knowledge he held. When he was a child, Chris had been forced to take a
thousand small steps to keep pace with his father’s giant leap of a stride, but
now he was struck by the lurching crawl which his father’s stride had become.
He had found himself trying to pace himself in order that he did not leave his
father behind, collapsed or out of breath.

Mal was handling the
situation badly; it seemed as though it had sapped all of his energy, and left
him a husk. Chris had therefore forced himself to put a brave face on things
and had talked himself into behaving as though his father was his client.
Although scandal would affect Chris almost as much as his father, he realised
that his job was not retrievable once the article appeared; his boss was, after
all, a member of
Leeds
’ all powerful vegetarian Mafioso. What Chris had
to do was save his brother, to fulfill his promise; and this was something he
had needed to do for years.

He approached Manners’
as though it was a last chance saloon, and he was the gun-slinger, ready to do
battle.

           
Although
Dawn Foster was physically dwarfed by the pair when she stood up to meet them,
she radiated a particular type of journalistic arrogance which implied she
would not be overpowered in terms of will. She was a short, dark haired woman
with a curvy figure. She dressed in slimming black to hide that middle-aged
spread which had crept up on her almost overnight. She made up for her height
disadvantage by walking briskly and clattering her high heels as if it was
machine gun fire. As Chris walked down the stairs behind her, he was almost
choked by her liberally-applied perfume which she wore as if it was a weapon.

Chris had been to
Manners’ before, and knew that Dawn Foster had picked an ideal location for
such a provocative meeting. Despite its wholesome and sensual food, the soft
lighting and ambient atmosphere, the restaurant was rarely full, and thus lent
itself brilliantly to private conversation. The waitresses were unobtrusive,
the surroundings relatively simple away from the street’s prying eyes.

Chris had brought many
a secret date to that particular restaurant. Foreplay was feeding your partner
the Tempura King Prawns, followed in a timely fashion by the orgy of game and
seafood main courses on offer and the climax was the multiple orgasm which was
the Chocolate Brioche pudding. This meeting was hardly about the food, however,
and all three knew it, as they barely paid any attention to the menu.

After the waitress
brought a bottle of sparkling water and a carafe of red wine, Chris decided to
find out exactly what cards Dawn Foster was holding so close to her chest.

‘So,
Miss
Foster, what have you dragged us
here for? As much as I love Manners’, I think the company leaves a lot to be
desired. From what you said on the phone, you have convinced yourself that you
have some kind of breaking story, but let me ask you; why is it being left to
the
Yorkshire Evening Post
? It’s
hardly a bastion of investigative journalism is it?’

‘Interesting that you
aren’t starting with a denial,’ Dawn Foster commented.

‘Why are you trying to
dig up events of three years ago? Nothing was found then; nothing will be found
now,’ said Chris. He had to pause for a moment as the waitress delivered the
starters. Both he and his father had ordered meat; a defiant gesture in their
eyes. Dawn Foster had ordered the prawns, which they both eyed jealously.

‘I want to clear this
up once and for all,’ said Mal, folding his napkin into his lap and crossing
his arms, downright refusing to start eating until he was good and ready. ‘I
really do not wish to have to keep going back to that time.’

Dawn
Foster gave him a look which only a journalist could give; at once inquisitive
and conniving. ‘Allow me to tell you a story to jog your memory about
that time
. It’s a series of seemingly
unrelated events. Number one; January 2003, a child at St. Pat’s Primary School
in Wetherby dies. High levels of bleach are found in his blood, but the
coroner’s report is inconclusive as to what caused the bleach to be in his
bloodstream.’

Chris
blanched at the veiled accusation, dropping his fork and leaving his
Parma
ham untouched.

‘Number
two; two anonymous calls are made. One is put in to the Food Standards
Authority, the other to West Yorkshire Police. The caller is male, with a
Leeds
accent, but nothing else is known about him; the calls were traced
to a phone box near the Lord Darcy pub in Shadwell. The caller tells the police
and the FSA, in great detail about an alleged use of condemned meat by a
certain meat production unit.

Number
three; and I’m sorry to have to bring this up, but a Mr. Todd Parker is found
dead in his bed in Shadwell,
Leeds
on
25 January 2003
. Post-mortem results prove that he killed himself
by drinking bleach. Mr. Parker; Todd knew about the bad meat didn’t he? He knew
about the child that died at the school. I have it on very good evidence that
you managed to cover up the death of your own son and that of the child. Todd
killed himself with bleach; the very bleach you doctored your products with…’

Chris
and his father contemplated the journalist in shocked silence.

‘Why
now?’ Mal gasped, his eyes wide in terror. ‘Why is this all getting dragged up
now? How dare you?’

Chris
chipped in: ‘You’re forgetting one very simple thing; the FSA and West
Yorkshire Police visited the factory that January and found no evidence of
condemned meat. There was no evidence of trimming, treating or bleaching. In
fact, the bleach in that young boy’s blood was traced back to his hiding in the
school’s cleaning cupboard earlier that day. And Todd? How dare you insinuate
that he was somehow involved in this?’

‘I can see the fear in
your eyes. The condemned meat that condemned your son will finally condemn your
business.’

‘Is that the
journalistic slant you’re putting on this?’ asked Mal, frowning in disgust.
‘Miss Foster, you are not the first vulture to go picking at my son’s bones.
Todd was a troubled young man; he was almost of another world. He wasn’t
slow
, but he was a day-dreamer. Chris
used to be like that as well…

Life was always too big
for Todd; in his short time here, he never found that right fit. I don’t know
why he killed himself, but it wasn’t because of my factory. He may have worked
there, but he paid so little attention to what was going on around him that it
could have been a toy factory for all he cared.’

Mal slumped back into
his seat; the effort he’d taken to make the speech had exhausted him.

‘I’m not trying to rake
up the past out of spite. Other journalists might have sniffed around your
factory - looked at your flaunting of working practices - but I have
meticulously built up this story, even when my editor tried to persuade me
otherwise. I think you’re seriously under-estimating your son and what I think
he knew.’

‘What gives you the
right to talk about Todd?’ Chris raged, the veins in his neck protruding
aggressively. ‘What gives either of you the right? Neither of you knew him; not
really. People thought he was slow but he wasn’t; he was always thinking,
weighing up the world. I was there when he died. You didn’t know that, did
you?’

Dawn Foster simply
stared; such a revelation had been completely out of the blue.

Mal had sunk even
deeper into his seat, and gasped, ‘Did he tell you why?’

‘He may have done, but
I’m not going to tell you, am I?’ Chris suddenly felt he had said too much.

‘The story will come out
tomorrow; Todd will be in it. If we build up a picture of him being racked with
guilt at the child’s death, then at least one member of your family will emerge
with some credit,’ said the journalist, provocatively inviting further comment.

‘He will not be in the
story!’ shouted Chris. He slammed his fist onto the mahogany table, scattering
knives and forks. He waved away the concerned looks of the waitress.

Dawn Foster shook her
head wearily. ‘Once and for all, I’m not going to pussyfoot around Todd. Do you
know why? Do you know why I can’t let go of the story? Do you know why I’ve
spent the past three years digging up these facts? That boy who died at the
school; he had a name. I bet you don’t remember it though, do you?’

Suddenly Mal let out an
agonized wheeze. ‘David Foster… he was… your son?’

‘We both lost our sons
because of your greed. That I can’t forgive. It’s unfortunate for you that the
first person you murdered was the son of a journalist though; a journalist that
will be like a bloody rottweiler that won’t let go. It doesn’t matter that you
play golf with the local councilors, all of whom are in your pocket.’

‘Are you accusing me of
bribery?’ bristled Mal.

‘I’m simply stating
facts. Even three years ago, it was obvious that it wasn’t in their interest to
go rooting around your business; after all, everyone gets a cut of the money
saved by you selling them dodgy meat for the schools.’

‘I’m sorry you lost
your son, Miss Foster, but I believe that grief is making you concoct this
story,’ muttered Mal, hopelessly.

‘Don’t interrupt me,’
Dawn Foster continued, relentlessly ploughing on. ‘One of those schools you
supplied the condemned meat to was St. Pats’, and that’s where David went. He
was in Year Six; he was eleven years old. He was good at football, maths and
geography.’
  

           
The
chirp of the mobile phone broke up the staring match. Chris snapped open the
cover of his sleek black gadget, listened to what was being said and then
replied with a simple: ‘Good.’ He then returned his phone to his pocket and
explained: ‘I am really sorry for what happened to your son, but I have to tell
you; that call was from our lawyers. They have put a halt on your story. It
won’t be going to press tomorrow. I want nothing more to do with this
business.’

Dawn Foster’s eyes
betrayed a deep anger and she jabbed an accusatory finger towards Mal. ‘Do you
know, whilst I’ve been researching this story, I’ve found out a lot about the
meat trade. There are so many scandals, so many cover-ups. Did you know that in
many cases that actually go to court, the ring leaders have been discovered to
have come into the meat trade directly from the drug trade. The punishments are
so low, the risks lower and the profits are greater…’

‘Now you’re calling me
a common criminal,’ Mal growled.

‘I’m simply telling you
the facts. Your lawyers may have put the brakes on this story now, but it
will
air, and very soon. Your empire is
going to crash down around you. Todd knew, didn’t he? And he couldn’t handle
that truth. You killed him as well.’

With that, she stormed
out, leaving Chris and Mal to pay the bill.

           
Mal
reached across for his son’s hand across the table. Chris had forgotten the
strength in those hands; it was the first time his father had touched him in
years.

‘Thank you Chris. Thank
you for defending us. But why did you not tell me about Todd? I never knew that
you were with him.’

Chris seethed: ‘He
knew, Dad, he knew, and he couldn’t survive that knowledge. He made me promise
something that day; he made me promise that I would get away. He saw me being
dragged down by you. He wanted me to escape; get out of
Leeds
, leave the country.

He loved geography,
just like young David Foster. He was forever looking at maps and globes. We
used to spin the globe around and put our fingers on it to stop it; where our
finger ended up was where we would go. Do you know what? If I ever ended up
pointing to
England
, he’d let me have another go. That’s how much he
wanted away from you. He just didn’t know how to get away… I think he was
waiting for me. He didn’t want to leave me on my own with you. When David
Foster died though, Todd just gave up. It was him that made the anonymous calls
Dad; it was him.’