Читать книгу Greywater - Mr David Dalby - Страница 6

The Belasko Industrial Estate, which had been set up by and named after, an East European businessman who came to Temple Caneston many decades ago, was the largest industrial estate in the city. There were, according to the large green and white sign, thirty businesses on this plot of land. They constructed anything from hand made sports cars to washing machines and computers. Hazel slowly drove through the wide entrance.

“You don’t look very happy.” Price said. He seemed happy, but then he always seemed happy. Hazel looked out of the car windows at a world of white vans of various sizes. Odd that she never considered a company could make paper tubes.

“By now Eddie Symes probably knows Harry Sanford is in Dransfield.” Hazel said. There were several engineering companies here and Softwood Salvage was down at the far end.

“I don’t see how he can.”

“Easily.” Hazel said, “Stanger works at Elm Street. Elm Street is in the pocket of Victor Monk. Monk wants Symes to do something about Sanford and Harris. They know about you, by now the word will have been passed along the line.”

“Not every copper in Elm Street is going to be on Monk’s payroll.” Price said, rather casually, Hazel thought.

“Why not?” Hazel said.

“It’s impossible. It’d cost a fortune and the outlay wouldn’t be worth the return.” Price said.

“What if Victor Monk happened to be extremely rich? What if he paid just enough to keep them onside and offered a bonus if they happened to give him news that he could use?”

She pulled up outside Softwood Salvage. It looked pretty much like any of the other units here. Which it would because they were all the same. Large airy, prefabs with aluminium roofs and doors. Very modern, fairly basic, utterly functional.

There were two large vans outside bearing the Softwood logo in a dark green. The same logo that was on the main building. There were a couple of smaller buildings off to the left and a moderately large sign which informed them that all visitors must first go to the reception area.

“I noticed we informed the local police that we were coming.” Price said, “But they haven’t turned up to meet us yet.”

“They wouldn’t.” Hazel said, “They have fewer officers than Southfield. It was just a courtesy call.” She watched two men come out of the open doors of the main building, get into the van and drive off. One of the men, the passenger. Glanced incuriously over at them. He was young and dressed in the same dark green overalls as the driver.

“I still don’t see how Eddie Symes would know Sanford is in Dransfield.” Price said. “Even if you are right about the Elm Street police.”

“They know your name.” Hazel said, “Instead of keeping quiet you gave Stanger your name.” The two of them got out of the car. Hazel made sure it was locked.

“Yeah, but he doesn’t know me.” Price said, “I can understand locking the door where Harris lived, but here?” He looked around at all the units. Little boxes, all the same.

“More so here than there.” Hazel said, nodding briefly in the direction of the men working in the main building. There were four of them in overalls, gloves and heavy boots sorting through various items of what could best be described as waste.

None of them looked at Hazel or Price.

Hazel led the way over to the reception area. This was another prefab. Comfortably sized and home to a couple of young women, neither, Hazel noted, blondes. They wore street clothes and neither of them looked as if they had stepped inside the main building in their lives.

They had desks, computers and telephones. The building, inside, wasn’t quite as soulless. Some attempt to decorate and humanize the place had been made. There were family photos and what looked like school paintings by very young children. Though they might, equally, have been priceless art works by Turner prize winners. Hazel was no judge of art.

“May I help you?” The nearest woman gave them the usual faked smile of the stressed secretary. In reality it was more likely she didn’t want to be of any help at all and just wished people would go away so she could do her work in relative peace. Hazel sympathised. Police work would be so much easier if people didn’t go around committing crimes.

Hazel already had her identification ready. For once Price’s inexperience was paying off. He didn’t have his to hand. Hazel showed the woman her warrant card. “Police. We’d like a word with Mr Softwood, if that’s possible.”

The two secretary types looked at each other. This was a new one. You don’t really ask police detectives if they have an appointment and you can’t lie and say the boss is out. They might hang around outside and discover the truth.

Then again you can’t have the cops go crashing into the boss’ office with no warning.

The second one picked up a phone and pushed a button. Common sense reined supreme for a brief moment, “Mr Softwood? There are a pair of police officers here. Well…..er….” Hazel could have shown her the postcard her mother sent from France when she was on holiday, no one seems to actually read police IDs.

“Detective Sergeant Vernon.” Hazel said. Which the woman would have known if she was taking notice. Common sense reined only briefly.

“Detective Sergeant Vernon.” The woman said, “And another officer. Detective.”

Price might have said his name but kept quiet when Hazel looked at him.

“Yes.” The woman said into the phone and put it down. “Mr Softwood will see you right away, Just go straight through the door marked private.” She indicted the door behind them.

“Thank you.” Hazel said and she led Price through the door.

Weirdly they found themselves outside again. The door was a back entrance which led to an area covered by a transparent plastic canopy. They could see the spots of rain hitting the other side. Beyond it was another building, roughly the same size as the reception area. This one had R. Softwood fixed to the door on a generic plaque.

Hazel went straight through with Price in tow.

They were met by a small, smiling elderly man. Hazel put his age to be late sixties, maybe early seventies. He wore dark grey trousers and black braces over a dark wine coloured shirt. His sleeves were rolled up, showing skinny, knobbly elbows and a skin that hadn’t seen much sunlight for a long time

Not that anyone in this town had a natural tan. She supposed even someone who worked outside for a living wouldn’t get anything like a decent tan in this place.

He gave her a smile as fake and blank as she received in the reception area. If not more so.

“Hello.” His voice had a very faint Scottish accent. “Sergeant…Vernon…was it?”

“Yes.” Hazel said, not bothering to introduce Price. If he was offended it didn’t show. The office was about as standard as it was possible to get. Softwood had made no attempts to personalise the work area. There was a desk, a few basic chairs. The computer looked decent and monitor screen large, He had three phones. One that looked like a landline, a smart phone, though no a designer brand, and a third phone which had a USB connection as was plugged into the back of the computer. The wall held progress charts.

“You won’t mind if I take a look at your identification.” Softwood said, “You can’t be too careful these days, can you?”

“Not at all.” Hazel handed her warrant card over. The old man studied it far more closely than the receptionist had. “Especially around here.” Hazel said deliberately.

“What do you mean by that?” He pretty much shoved the warrant card back at her.

“Are all your employees criminals?” Hazel said, “Not counting the women in reception.” It was possible they might have been criminals also and Hazel hadn’t known them. Certainly the two men in the van and the four others working in the main building were known to the police. Mostly for petty crime.

“You might say we give people a second chance, Sergeant Vernon. Sort of recycle their lives you might say.” He gave her a malicious smile, “I’d like to see his identification as well.” Softwood looked to Price. Hazel mentally kicked herself. The man might be getting on but he was no fool.

Price had to hand over his warrant card for the same close inspection. Hazel was very unhappy about this. She didn’t mind Softwood knowing she was from Elm Street, but Price’s ID would make it clear he was from Dransfield.

“Bit out of your way, aren’t you, Constable Price?” Softwood said, dashing the vain hope that he’d not noticed. “I haven’t been to Dransfield in years.” Hazel didn’t like the sudden change of tone to friendly and casual.

“We’d like to speak to Charlie Harris.” She said, a bit hurriedly.

“I hope you know a good medium then.” Softwood said, “He’s been dead for eight…going on nine years now. Changed the company signs from light green to dark green when he died. Poor Charlie.” He didn’t sound very upset but then eight years was a long time and Softwood didn’t strike her as the sentimental sort.

“His son.” Hazel said.

“Oh.” Softwood said, “You should have said.”

Hazel hadn’t thought there was any good reason to specify which Charlie Harris as the senior was long dead.

“What’s he done?” Softwood said.

“I take it you don’t read the newspapers.” Hazel said.

“There’s I don’t know how many tonnes of newspapers out there. I see so many of the things in my working day I don’t need to read what’s in them. What are you claiming young Charlie has done?”

How much the old man really knew was open to question, but Hazel thought he knew exactly what was going on. She said, “He’s got himself into trouble with a group of very bad men. The Symes brothers.”

To give the old man credit he never blinked. His face was a complete blank. It looked a natural blank as well. If she’d not seen how many villains he had working for him Hazel would have believed him when he said, “Who’s that?”

“He’s a bad man.” Hazel said, playing along. “He took over from Charlie Warren a few months ago.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Softwood said in a voice that would have convinced any jury. “But young Charlie is a good boy really.”

No he’s not, Hazel thought, He’s a bastard with a string of convictions ranging from petty theft to car crime to GBH. Young Charlie is too keen with a knife and his fists. He’s not a good boy but he is a very stupid one. “You’ve known him a long time then?”

“Oh yeah. I knew his father. And his mother, lovely woman she was, A teacher you know. Very refined.”

Hazel didn’t know and was determined to find out because she had no intention of believing anything this old reprobate told her. “Is she still alive?”

“No that was a terrible thing. She died soon after he was born. Cancer it was. Breast cancer, I think,” He shook his head. “Terrible it was. She lingered for a bit and then went. Lovely funeral she had. All her friends were there.”

“You knew her friends, Mr Softwood?”

“Eh?”

“Ms. Harris’ friends. You knew them?”

“No, not me. I don’t travel in those refined circles.”

Hazel knew quite a few teachers and refined wasn’t a word she’d use to describe them. “What was her name?”

“Mrs Harris.”

“Yes, what was her name.”

“Mrs Harris.” Softwood said again with a straight face. Hazel knew very well the old man was playing his game with her. He also knew she knew. But he also knew that she wasn’t going to do anything about it because he was a small, elderly man, who looked much more frail than he really was. Hazel suspected he was strong and wiry and very robust underneath his old man act.

“Did she have a first name?”

“Who?” Did she just catch the merest glimpse of a crafty smile? It might have been her imagination. But then he was, very clearly, enjoying this whole encounter.

“Did Mrs Harris have a first name?”

“Oh yes, she did.” He nodded firmly. He gave her a small smile.

“May I know what it was, Mr Softwood? May I know what Mrs Harris’ first name was?” Hazel wasn’t going to let him get to her. She spoke calmly and casually, as if she were unaware of his deliberate unhelpfulness.

“Susan.” He said, “Her name was Susan Harris.”

“Thankyou.”

“Well you only had to ask.” He said, smiling at her. His teeth were neat, even clean, and very likely false. “Or was it Sarah?”

Now even Price looked up from his notebook. He’d already written Susan Harris down. He slowly wrote Sarah and put a question mark after it.

Softwood waited until he had finished writing, “It might have been Sandra.”

“We’ll find out.” Hazel said, closing down this part of the game.

“Suit yourself.” He shrugged slightly.

“Where is Charlie Harris….”

“I just told you…”

“The one that isn’t dead.” Hazel said, “Your former partner’s son. Where is he, Mr Softwood?”

“I dunno. I see him at Christmas and his birthday….sometimes….Maybe he went abroad.”

“He didn’t go abroad.” Hazel said.

“Didn’t he?” The old man looked convincingly blank. “Well wherever he is he’ll be with some blonde.”

“Which blonde?” Hazel said.

He shrugged again, “The world was full of blondes for young Charlie. So many blondes.”

“Such as who?” Hazel said, “Who was his latest blonde?”

“I don’t know. He never told me which was which. Blonde hair, short skirts, big boobs. That was a blonde to him.”

“He must have mentioned a name.” Hazel said, playing her own game. If they give a name it gives the police a good reason to go away. “Surely you can think of one.”

“Oh yeah.” He said, as if he suddenly remembered a name, “Tracy.”

“Tracy?” Hazel said.

“Tracy Smith.” Which was as likely a name as Richard Softwood. But Hazel noticed Price wrote it down.

“Anyone else?”

Yeah.” He was on a roll now, “Julie Brown.” He said, “Helen Taylor.” He seemed very pleased with himself. “How’s that, Sergeant Vernon?”

He’d just given her three very common names and no addresses. It would keep the police busy for a week trying to find these women, if they existed.

They probably did exist in large numbers and, Hazel suspected, none of them knew Charlie Harris.

“You wouldn’t know where any of them live, of course.”

“Sorry.” He said, not sounding sorry at all.

Been nice to meet you, Mr Softwood.”

“I enjoyed meeting you as well, Sergeant Vernon.” He said. He continued to smile until they had left his office and them the mask slipped and he became very serious, reaching for the smart phone and scrolling through the numbers. He pressed one and waited a moment as it rang. Then he picked up the landline type phone and pressed the call button, “Have the detectives left the premises? Good. Thanks.” He closed down the call and turned his attention to the smartphone. “Eddie, I just had the police here.”