Authors: Trevor Burton
I have to open up the office this morning, wondering what has happened to Amelia. She is usually in first. At ten minutes to ten I am about to text her, when I hear the door opening.
‘Morning. Sorry I’m late,’ she apologises.
‘No worries,’ I reply, waiting for more, but nothing more is forthcoming Sensing a problem, I raise my head from an exciting bank statement to see Amelia with a black eye and a very troubled look.
‘What on earth…? Have you been attacked?’
‘You could say that,’ she replies weakly. ‘I’ll just take my coat off,’ she adds, limping over to the coat stand.
‘Sit down and I’ll make you a coffee and you can explain.’
Hands clutched around a mug of coffee, she begins.
‘It was last night at the martial arts class.’
I’m really struggling now. Amelia is very good at her sport, and as tough as they come. She is a match for most men, but I can see straightaway that this is as much emotional as it is physical.
‘I don’t really know what happened. Sophia was upset again, in a foul mood, and we were kind of chatting and sparring at the same time. I asked her something – I can’t even remember exactly what it was now – and she lost it completely and seriously laid into me, like she wanted to really hurt me. I managed to defend myself, but not before she landed some hard blows. Well, you can see the result. It all calmed down as quickly as it flared up, and she was full of remorse and crying her eyes out.’
Lost for words, I hold my hands up. ‘I’m amazed. I wouldn’t have thought Sophia could be violent like that.’
‘Nobody would, but she is quite tall and despite the beautiful looks she is athletic and strong, not to mention being technically very good at martial arts.’
‘Did you challenge her as to why she erupted in that manner?’
‘Of course I did,’ Amelia answers. ‘But she is still sticking to this stalker angle.’
‘Like you, I’m not at all convinced about a stalker, certainly not after the revelation from Julian at the Lowry art gallery the other night.’
‘Me neither,’ Amelia agrees. ‘But where do we go from here?’
‘Frankly, as of this minute I haven’t got the faintest idea. I mean, she’s committed no crime as far as we are aware of, unless you are going to press charges for assault.’
‘Don’t be daft. I’d feel a right wimp,’ she says with a half grin, which gives me some relief that she is feeling better by talking about it.
‘Something or someone is winding her up. It might be worth me touching base with Bill Lambert, to see whether they have got any further in their interviews with the staff at Salford into Work.’
‘Yes,’ she agrees. ‘The more variables we can rule out of the equation, the better chance we have of finding out what she is hiding.’
My mind is in overdrive now, as several thoughts vie for prominence in my head, none of which I’m confident of discussing in depth.
I push it back to Amelia. ‘On the fraud angle, are you sure she couldn’t have been involved to some degree? Maybe not fudging paperwork, but perhaps getting information in some way for Barry Milton.’
‘Well, I can’t be sure, but she has been interviewed by the police and they appear to be happy with her statement so far.’
‘That’s true,’ I have to agree.
‘I’ll get on with some work now,’ she says. ‘Do you want me to finish off checking the bank statement?’
‘That would be fantastic,’ I reply, greatly relieved. ‘I was really only making sure Jamie’s transfer had gone through OK. I need to check up on social media for a minute or two.’
Amelia scowls. ‘A minute or two, or you’ll still be at it till lunch time if you don’t keep it under control.’
I make a face. ‘Scout’s honour I’ll only spend ten minutes. I only want to see if anything has happened since we put our profile up on LinkedIn.’
At least she is smiling as she leaves my office. I log on to LinkedIn, and after five minutes I shout out, ‘Here, look at this one!IIt has suggested that I may be interested in an opportunity working for a
p
arliamentary lobbyist organisation at Westminster. How on earth could that happen?’
Amelia pops her head round the door. ‘No idea. It’s mad. How do they conjure it up?’
‘Don’t know. I think it must all be done by computer algorithms and stuff,’ I reply, logging off.
Over lunch we discuss Sophia again, but make no further progress. Having had the morning to consider, I decide that a call to Lambert is the next move. I’m put through to his office. When Evans answers and passes me over, I advise Lambert of my concerns about Sophia, suggesting that we meet up.
‘Does seem strange,’ he admits. ‘Regarding the body in the Irwell, we’re still doing interviews with hotel staff who would not have been in the bar but would have passed through the adjoining corridors. Should be finished today. It might be easier to meet somewhere other than GMPHQ.’
Forest View golf club have a Friday roll-up where golfers can just turn up and play nine holes in the afternoon, subject to numbers.
‘I was thinking of doing the Friday roll-up tomorrow,’ I offer.
‘Yes, that would be good idea. I’m due a half-day off. What time do we need to tee off in order to be finished before it starts to go dark?’
‘It’s usually a slow event, so 1:30, I’d say. That will allow us two hours in case we are behind slow players.’
‘Agreed. See you there at 1:15,’ he ends.
***
Half an hour later, Lambert called in Evans and Wang for a briefing.
‘Any developments from your visit back to talk to the staff at the Lowry, then?’ he asks. Evans defers to Wang, as he himself had not had a chance to hear what Wang may have found out.
‘Yes, sir,’ Wang begins. ‘Last time we spoke we knew that three men and one woman had been seen going outside onto the terrace fronting the river, and two men and the woman returned. We now know that one of the men had no connection with the Salford into Work party. The other man was Phil Biggins, the training director, and the woman was Sophia Peroni.’
‘Do we know why they went outside or whether they were out at the same time?’ Evans asked.
‘Not yet,’ Wang answered. ‘We are going back to Salford into Work tomorrow afternoon, Friday, to interview them again, as we haven’t got enough to bring them down to the station as yet.’
‘What about the three Lowry staff who you thought were dodging questions in case they got into trouble for being outside themselves?’ Lambert asked.
‘Two have owned up that they went out for a smoke, but have stated categorically that they didn’t see anyone. The third was off sick, so I’ll catch up with her tomorrow.’
‘This feels like three steps forward and one step back,’ Evans muttered.
‘That’s police work for you, gentlemen,’ Lambert pronounced. ‘I’m supposed to be having the afternoon off tomorrow, but get me on the mobile if needed.’ He ended the briefing there.
Hans Johansen sat in his aparthotel in the centre of Manchester. He had made his mind up: the plan was the right one, and he would need only two accomplices, one of whom would come prepared with firearms.
The firearms man was renting a room in a small cheap national hotel in central London, the kind you normally see at the back of motorway services or mainline railway stations. Anonymous, it was ideal for his purposes. He had been waiting for two days, travelling into London from Ipswich, which was his base. Close to Harwich, it gave him easy access by boat to travel over to Europe where he had a lot of contacts eager to purchase his skills. He was averse to air travel, and ferry crossings allowed a lower profile. He appeared as just another contract worker, packing only enough clothes for a couple of days into a large sports bag. He cleaned and checked the weapons – a rifle and several handguns. They were secreted in a special compartment under the floor of the boot of his car. He was ready for the call to travel up to Manchester.
Johansen picked up his mobile and punched the buttons for the mobile number of the firearms man, known to him only as John.
‘Hello,’ a voice answered.
‘It’s me,’ Johansen replied.
‘I’m ready,’ John responded.
‘Have you got the product?’ Johansen demanded.
‘All secure,’ John confirmed.
‘Get the first train after lunch tomorrow. I’ll be waiting at this end. And wear dark clothes.’
‘OK, will do. Is that everything?’
‘Yes, goodbye.’ Johansen hung up.
Johansen’s other accomplice lived in a dingy block of council flats in Salford. He was sitting watching daytime trash on TV, two empty cans and an empty pizza box on the floor. His tattoos and shaved head confirmed him as hired muscle. Johansen made the call.
‘Yeah,’ the muscle answered.
‘It’s me,’ Johansen replied, thankful that the muscle only ever seemed to converse in words of one syllable, for his Salford accent was so broad that Johansen struggled to understand. ‘Are you ready?’
‘Yeah,’ the man responded.
‘The other man arrives at Piccadilly railway station tomorrow afternoon, Friday, and the job will be on Saturday afternoon. I will call you at eleven in the morning. Wear dark clothes.’
‘OK,’ the man confirmed.
‘Bye.’ Johansen put the phone down confident that things were going according to plan.
He finished his supper of herring fillets downed a schnapps and then went to bed where he slept soundly, his conscience untroubled by the havoc he would wreak on FrackUK in the next day or so.
***
Late the same evening in Oslo, Norway, a clerical worker received an e-mail from police headquarters in Stavanger. The word
urgent
appeared three times above the title ‘Hans Johansen.’ Quickly reading it, she assumed it was another hoax. She printed it out and copied it to her supervisor, who emailed it to GMP in Manchester, where it was immediately copied to Inspector Bill Lambert. It was again also printed out and placed on the front of his desk for immediate attention when he arrived for work the next morning.
At Salford into Work, Phil Biggins was worried. Sophia Peroni was worried too, and Suzy Meredith. In fact, anyone who was anyone was worried, even if they had not been involved in any fraudulent activity nor attended the thirtieth birthday of Marian Clowes, whose lifeless body had been found in the River Irwell on Friday 14
th
November. People were worried just because. The more the police came back and interviewed colleagues, the deeper the all-pervading gloom became, settling over the offices like the fog off the River Irwell now also swirling over the city.
Arrangements had been made for Maurice Evans and Sammy Wang to use the same office tomorrow afternoon as on their other visits. The office had been kept locked in between visits; no one wished to go in. Phil Biggins was in trouble at home: his wife was convinced he had been part of the fraud, and no amount of denial would convince her otherwise. If his own wife didn’t believe him, why would the police? He felt wretched. How long would they keep coming back?
Sophia Peroni was particularly worried. She had secrets, and she knew people wouldn’t continue to believe her story about a stalker for much longer. Did the police believe her? How long would they keep coming back, voracious wolves finishing off a carcass? Could she throw a sickie tomorrow? Would they come to her house? What would her father say? He kept nagging on about her bad moods. She felt deep regret about losing it with Amelia and hitting her, and she remembered the fear when she realised she didn’t even know who it was she was attacking. Blind rage had taken over.
***
Sammy Wang finished up for the day, all arrangements made for tomorrow, Friday. He hoped they would all be available, with no last-minute absences, as he now wanted it finished. There had to be a breakthrough, all bases had been covered, and he felt there was no more he could do.
He had been through his notes twice over and discussed it all with Maurice Evans. He needed a colleague to accompany him and as most of the staff to be interviewed were female, he had, on Evans’s advice chosen Julie Harris, a competent detective constable with whom he had worked with on a number of occasions before.
***
Friday 15
th
December
It’s early, and I’m wondering if it is worth going into the office, as I would have to leave late morning to get back to meet Bill Lambert for our game of golf at 1:15. I suppose it’s a sense of responsibility that makes me feel I ought to go in. It’s sod’s law if I don’t; something will crop up. I reluctantly gather up my normal work stuff and head off to drive through the lanes to Stockport. I pass over the M6 motorway, which is a car park – nothing unusual here. The journey is slow, as savvy M6 drivers with an ear for the traffic bulletins have pulled off at the first opportunity, clogging the lanes with trucks and folk whose satnav instructions are now constantly changing.
I park up, walk round to St Petersgate, and cross over to the newsagents for the Times, which I usually get from Crewe station. Scanning the headlines as I stroll slowly back on the same side of the street, I glance up and across at the Enodo office building. It is dowdy and nondescript as usual. Vic the Liq, my landlord, is always promising to have it done up, but hell will freeze over first. But the premises are cheap and will have to do, and as landlords go he doesn’t give me a hard time.
Amelia’s frantic as I enter the office.
‘Sit down, sit down,’ she urges. ‘You’d better read this, quick, and he’s been on the phone already.’
As I remove my jacket and sling my bag down, I’m guessing its Jamie again. But my jaw drops as I read an e-mail, all in capitals, addressed to FrackUK for the attention of Carl Benson.
THE TIME HAS COME TO BRING TO JUSTICE THOSE WHO WOULD DESECRATE OUR MOTHER EARTH. WE WILL BRING YOUR MISDEEDS TO THE ATTENTION OF ALL PEOPLE.
IT WILL BEGIN TODAY.
Hans Johansen
HARMONY EARTH
‘Bloody hell!’ I gasp. ‘The man’s more of a nutter than we thought. How was Benson? What did he say on the phone?’
‘Desperate. He asked if you can get over there pronto.’
‘I’ll call him now, but meanwhile can we find out if Sophia is in work today?’
Amelia looks incredulous. ‘Why? You don’t think she has any connection with this, do you?’
‘I don’t know what to think. She’s certainly got something going on, and she was friends with Marian Clowes, who was part of the fracking protest group.’
‘It’s a long shot, but OK. I’ll go make the call.’
I pick up the phone and call Carl Benson.
‘Oh, thank God!’ he answers. ‘There was an answerphone message as well as the e-mail, spouting similar crap, and also the postman has delivered a letter saying exactly the same.’
‘He’s not leaving anything to chance, is he?’ I comment.
‘Dead right,’ he agrees. ‘Do we take him seriously? What do you think he is going to do?’
‘We have to take him seriously,’ I answer. ‘But as to what and/or how, who knows? I’m on my way.’
Amelia is waiting as I finish the call. ‘Sophia is in work. I also asked about Suzy, and she is in as well. I made some excuse about some ideas, and that we may want to buy them a drink later and talk it through. She seemed OK about it.’
‘Excellent. In that case, it’s probably a good idea if you come with me, in case we have to be in two places at once.’
‘I’m ready,’ she confirms, making for the door.
I grab my jacket and bag, not long discarded, and off we go. We use the M60 ring road, coming off down the M602 through Salford and into the city. I park on a meter in a side street in Chinatown.
Amelia quizzes me. ‘Why don’t we leave it in the car park?’
‘Are you kidding? The note – read the note again. FrackUK could be a pile of rubble by the end of the day, with my car underneath it.’
‘Ah! Dumbo,’ she smacks her forehead. ‘Of course!’
We dash up George Street and enter the building. All the time I’m looking for any sinister presence or some sign of anyone or anything that doesn’t look right. It all appears as it did two days before, when I made the security check. We sign in and move towards the lift.
‘Just in case,’ I say. ‘You take the lift. It’s on the eighth floor. I’ll check the stairs.’
‘Right, OK.’
I see nothing out of the ordinary, and Amelia is waiting outside the lift as I reach the top of the stairs. The girl on the reception desk looks scared out of her wits – she must have been the first to see the messages.
‘Please go through,’ she gestures, trying to smile but failing. ‘He’s waiting for you.’
Carl is standing waiting as we enter his office. We shake hands grimly, and I introduce Amelia.
‘Would you like coffee, or something stronger?’ I notice there is an empty brandy glass on his desk.
Brandy sounds good in the circumstances, but not advisable. We both opt for coffee. He orders coffee and we sit at a small conference table. Carl has the-e-mail, and also the letter and envelope that same message was delivered in. He passes the latter two items over the table to us.
‘It arrived in the normal post this morning.’
The letter looks as though it has been produced on a computer in a standard font, possibly Times New Roman, but this time it is not all in capitals. I can’t spot any grammar or punctuation errors. There is no address heading, of course. The paper appears to be normal typing/copying paper that you can buy almost anywhere. Turning to the envelope, the address has been word-processed also. The postmark is central Manchester.
‘There seems to be nothing out of the ordinary,’ I begin, but then I realise perhaps there is.
‘It seems unusual to go to the trouble of word-processing the envelope,’ she observes. ‘And the signature on the letter is not handwritten either.’
‘Yes,’ I agree. ‘And that rules out any chance of analysing the handwriting,’
‘We’re a bit stumped, then, aren’t we? Do we just sit here and wait, or do we evacuate the building, call the police or what?’ Carl says dramatically.
‘Hold on a minute,’ I caution. ‘Let’s read again exactly what it says in the note. There is no obvious threat of violence: he is not using terms like
bomb
or
mass destruction.
The word used in the note is
attention,
therefore the main threat would appear to be one of exposure.’
‘Media advertising,’ Carl suggests.
‘Or marching or protesting outside,’ Amelia chips in.
‘Any of those things, I suppose. We do need to inform the police, of course. They’re bound to have more experience of these situations, and they will have profilers, etc.’
‘Wait,’ Amelia holds up a hand. ‘The note only says it will
begin
today, therefore we can’t assume it is only one scenario, and we have no idea what time today.’
‘That’s true,’ Carl and I agree.
We’ve been talking for an hour, and Carl suggests a break while I make the call to GMP.