Clock Face of Ills Read online

  McMaster releases his prey. ‘Thank you. I’m sure we can do business.’

  On Stonebridge’s recommendation, Westlands Council’s planning department approved McMaster’s permit application to erect a huge barn, or in twenty-first century parlance: maintenance shed. The application cited needs to house tractors, a small excavator and other earth moving plant to prepare his acreage for heavy agriculture. The council also approved construction of a one million litre dam to irrigate crops, although at the time of application, McMaster had not specified the variety of crops he would sow.

  To justify the approval, and to shift attention from his forthcoming project, McMaster has planted an acre of cabbage and cauliflower, intending to consign the new crop to a local farmer to manage through to harvest. Whilst McMaster’s ability to wheel and deal is limitless, his knowledge of agriculture and permaculture would be on par with the Chancellor of the Exchequer’s nous of the financial needs of the average British citizen.

  The permit had not been rubber-stamped as McMaster had expected. The proposed siting of the 60 by 30 metre shed alongside the shared rear boundary of his and the Caruso property sees the completed building soar ten metres above ground level – the height of a two-storey building.

  Giuseppe Caruso spat: ‘What for you want the large shed? It’s bigger than your house.’

  McMaster explained his farm proposal and the necessity for an equipment and packing shed. He brushed off his indecision with the explanation that on-going climate research and soil evaluation would determine further crop selection.

  Giuseppe Caruso vehemently opposes change. He formalised an objection, citing loss of amenity, destruction of natural fall of land with the consequent loss of water to his property, and then, contrary to his stance, complained that runoff from the 100-square-metre roof would flood his property – despite two proposed 50,000 litre storage tanks capable of collecting every raindrop.

  Stonebridge weighed the objectors’ concerns, and had been keen to deny the application after accepting the Carusos’ submission citing loss of their ‘precious views’ of the Malvern Hills. His about-face followed McMaster’s promise to resite the erection. McMaster also pledged to soften the galvanised monolith with jasmine, wandering Jew and climbing roses, creating a panorama of evergreen foliage.

  Satisfied that the grounds of the Caruso’s objection no longer existed, Stonebridge reconsidered the application – prompted by McMaster’s incentive, discreetly left on Stonebridge’s office table. That was inconsistent with McMaster’s usual practice – his deals generally flourished under the table. The language of money is historic, as both trading currency and corruptive power. It is that element that conscripted Stonebridge to Phillip McMaster’s payroll.

  Ecstasy was short-lived. The project suffered further delays after Caruso sought a court injunction to overturn the Westlands Council decision. The action fuelled McMaster’s rage toward Caruso, who by now had recruited fellow ‘local farmers’ – some of whom were more local to John o’Groats than the dales of Worcestershire – to support his objection. Caruso, however, soon learnt that when a government authority stamps a decision, nothing will reverse the ruling – even if the pronouncement is flawed, or an outright abuse of statutory power. Relations between the feuding neighbours turned so bitter that none of McMaster’s sweeteners could reinstate the friendship.

  Works commenced soon after council dismissed the objection. Concrete footings seeped into the earth, steel girders rose, and the frame peaked over a ten-hour shift before roof contractors fixed rafters and purlins. As dusk bleached the surroundings, the final sheet of olive-green corrugated iron roofing muted the topography.

  Giuseppe Caruso stood within his boundary, yelling abuse and obscenities at the workers. The foreman countered with his own barrage, only for Caruso to complain to council that the works contravened planning permission. He had no foundation for the complaint other than his belief that McMaster would take shortcuts or request last-minute changes to the approved plan.

  McMaster though, had exercised stringent control over the construction. And, although eight feet shy of his intended siting, he had sited it directly over the ‘Do not Plough’ section identified by the land title.

  Angelo Caruso approaches McMaster as he attaches lattice panels to the shed’s rear wall. Angelo has been ‘on-side’ since McMaster turned a blind eye to a small marijuana crop, sheltered by a stand of Willows, growing inside the Caruso’s side boundary. Angelo knows his neighbour is a police officer; he’s known it since the McMasters took on Ashton Hill. To lift the atmosphere, Angelo rolls two joints and offers one to his neighbour.

  McMaster recalls photos of his late father drawing on the illicit tobacco back in the days of Vietnam War protests – a cause western youth had pursued with vigour. Fred McMaster, following his ilk, had experimented with the popular drug before walking into adulthood. Phil McMaster pulls hard on the sweet tobacco, clamps his mouth, and savours the rollie’s full power. A few drags transport him to his father’s snaps of 1967, where the twanging riff of the Jimi Hendrix Experience ‘Purple Haze’ reignites his first sexual encounter with a girl – whose name he didn’t even know – under a blanket in Hyde Park. Later that night, he’d tried to swim across the Thames after missing the last bus.

  Now, he contemplates a market for the popular weed. Four fellow detective’s names come to mind; immediate candidates for a few wisps of enhanced weekend relaxation. He considers a partnership with Angelo, but decides to not risk his mantle as a threatening power. He draws again. ‘Been a long time.’

  ‘Wait no longer, then. You don’t need an agricultural degree to grow this.’

  ‘Too risky. Remember I’m in the job. One of those bloody detector dogs would sniff me out from ten miles away.’

  But McMaster doesn’t reject the idea. Maybe I could grow a couple. Test the market.

  Under darkness, he returns to Angelo’s crop and shakes seeds from a mature plant. A few hours nurturing inside his AGA-warmed kitchen will see them spring from pots within a fortnight. He’ll then transfer them to crudely constructed troughs made of plastic roof guttering, in a section of his new shed. If tomatoes and strawberries flourish in hydroponic trenches, why not marijuana? It could prove to be a highly profitable low-maintenance hobby, and generate an immediate black-market income. The vision clashes with his prime aim.

  A low-loader, struggling with excavator, buckets and augers, and a diesel generator, rumbles along McMaster’s drive. As Phil rushes to direct the driver, he notices three Caruso faces gawking over the dividing fence. With a sarcastic wave, he yells: ‘Nice afternoon, isn’t it?’

  Giuseppe returns unintelligible insults.

  McMaster ignores him.

  The driver off-loads the machinery.

  McMaster, in a clearly defiant act, commandeers the small excavator, rattles over to a pre-pegged area close to the Caruso boundary, and scrapes off the top soil. Dumps it nearby.

  Two cigarette breaks later, he returns to the shed, drops the roller door, and scrapes a ten-foot square of earth from the shed floor. He transfers scores of cubic metres of earth to the swelling pile beside a proposed dam. The growing mountain will surely provoke fresh complaints from the Carusos. And it will get bigger. McMaster recalls a geology manual stating that to extract just 15 to 30 grams of gold from the earth, he will have to sift through a ton – 2,240 pounds (1,000 kilograms) or, in physical terms, 500 shovelfuls of raw earth.

  He continues the onerous task of pursuing criminals during the day, and of an evening, firing up the excavator to scoop earth for five hours. As the excavator’s six-metre boom reaches its limit, the sizeable pit shows the beginnings of a fully fledged mine entrance.

  The next phase is much harder. Physically taxing. Pick and shovel. Breaking through lime, rock and shale. Jarring wrists and shoulders. Shattering chunks of the renowned Cotswold stone. At ten metres, the
three-section extension ladder begins to sway. He logs that as the maximum depth.

  Encouraged by the familiar glitter-like sparkle in sections of the shaft wall, he strikes out a landing and carves a lateral tunnel. The metal detector buzzes and flashes strong readings of metallic substance, propelling McMaster to ferociously pick into the new section. Fear invokes reservations about channelling along a lateral trajectory. He has no experience of the occupation where cave-ins, wall collapses, and respiratory problems have taken lives. His knowledge comes only from skims through mining books and manuals, and reliance on carpentry instructions for shoring up the secondary tunnel. Safety demands the horizontal shaft be supported by five inch square beams, which in turn means further investment. He reflects that it might have been far more practical to disclose his findings to Caruso, and then embark on a joint venture. He just as quickly discards the thought. Never has McMaster been one to share.

  He catches his breath. Organises his head. He rests the pick against the jagged wall and drops a large bucket at his feet. Waves the metal detector across the face of the new cut. Retreats from the high-pitched shrill. He drops the detector, grabs the pick, and slams it into the wall, sending chunks of clay and rock splintering to the floor. Shovels the lumps into the bucket and checks the pulley rope.

  He scampers up the ladder like Spiderman scaling a wall, and then heaves the huge bucket to the surface where he upends the contents onto a large plastic tarpaulin. He then sifts the earth thorough a makeshift sieve fabricated from an old insect screen.

  Two marble-sized pieces of dull gold roll like dice in a Roulette wheel. His temperament lifts as the rewards of success dissolve the pain of long laborious hours – finally justifying his huge investment. No one can learn of his find. Secrecy will guarantee his financial future, whereas bragging would surely see the Crown step in and take possession of all beneath the surface.

  V

  ‘Miss Watts?’ A young constable approaches and escorts me to Thornton’s temporary office. I suppress my knowledge of the building and its stalwarts, preferring to leave that history smudged on dusty architraves and faded blue curtains.

  I have not previously met Superintendent Thornton, and nor have I had reason to, given his attachment to London’s MET office. The introduction springs disbelief. Thornton stands in contrast to my perception of senior officers, typically typecast as five years’ pre-retirement, anaemic complexion – save for the liquor-reddened nose, the uniform-issue fifty-inch belt buckled into the third extra hand-punched hole, and a wealth of RetireInvest prospectuses hidden beneath unsolved-crime files. He is a surprise: elf-like: short in stature, ectomorphic frame, and glows as if he’d minutes earlier completed the London Marathon – or just finished ‘interviewing’ a young female constable eager to suck her way to promotion.

  ‘Hello, Miss Watts. Pleased to finally meet you.’

  Why? Small talk, or has my reputation preceded me? ‘Thank you sir.’ I don’t know why I call him ‘sir’. Force of habit – the indoctrination of hierarchical respect instilled in me by my police officer step-father and reinforced through school and college.

  Thornton sedates the atmosphere: ‘Call me Jack please. You’re not in uniform now, although I must say your resignation was a loss to the constabulary.’

  He heard? Through Stafford or the rampant grapevine? ‘One of those situations, sir. I hope you understand the discomfiture I faced. I felt extremely uneasy about overriding DI Marchant, but when we pledge to represent justice I believe that justice must receive the best opportunity of being served. Idealistic? Maybe. But as my presence here attests, I’m a person who stands by her word.’

  ‘And that’s precisely why you’re here, Miss Watts, because of your ethics.’

  ‘Better forget the “Miss Watts” then. It’s Olivia.’

  Needless to say, I wondered what was coming. Why recruit a recently resigned member who’d lagged on a superior officer? And why is this driven by the upper echelon – a superintendent for goodness’ sake?

  Thornton presses on: ‘The target is a private investigator. Gillian Trotter. Know her?’

  A queasy uneasiness chills me. I feel second-rate, a second string to his preferred outside help. Reporting the activities of one of my own. That’s worse than investigating a copper. It revives the fallout of the Worcester CID incident, the very reason I’d left the constabulary. I’m still recovering to this day, not through emotional stress but through the regret of having sacrificed a magnificent career and all of its financial benefits. But there’s a rider: I’m far happier for having started my own agency. Now, a potential conflict slaps me in the face.

  ‘Never heard of her,’ as if I keep a log of every registered and unregistered investigator in England. And that’s good, because if I did know Trotter, I would instantly decline the job.

  Thornton proffers a long-winded analytical speech in which he convinces me – not that I need convincing – of the need for accountability: ‘it benefits taxpayers; it’s their money,’ and, ‘not all police officers are squeaky clean; think of the bad apple syndrome.’ He smiles and opens a manila folder. ‘We have a situation, and I think – no, I know – that you’re the one to look into it.’

  I’ve seen the bad apples, including a couple rotten through to their core. I glare at the folder, trying to decipher the upside down print.

  ‘The situation is, Olivia, we have an officer, an inspector at that, who I believe is treading a thin line. I want to nip this in the bud before the IPCC gets wind. That should not compromise your role because I have instigated mechanisms to ensure we are one step ahead.’

  ‘We have strong reasons to suspect that the investigator tasked to inform us of matters pertaining to that detective inspector is not acting in our best interests. We suspect Trotter is short-delivering investigatory material, and, that she may be too close to the target. Your task is to shadow Trotter and update me. There’s a leak somewhere – it’s either her, or we have an internal problem. On that basis, I can’t afford to have information flowing to anyone but me. I will be your only – and I stress only – contact, and you’ll submit invoices only to me.’ Thornton pens his mobile number on the back of a card and hands it over. ‘For all intents and purposes you don’t exist.’

  I don’t mind not existing; it’s been on my wish-list for some time. But what haunts me is whether Thornton will outlay £45 per hour from his own pocket? If so, that suggests the enquiry is most definitely not official. On the other hand, hundreds of scenarios deserve varying levels of confidentiality. Mine is not to question, but to do the job and deliver results. And bank the money. Still, I am confused. Being head-hunted to inform on a fellow PI is not my idea of a rewarding contract. Employees are held to account by many devious means – it’s quite normal to read about stings in papers or to see the results of a covert operation on television. But when you’re in the epicentre, radiating shock waves through immediate surrounds, colleagues and friends, it is an entirely different Tupperware bowl of fish. I fear losing my last threads of credibility. It’s not as if I have to subscribe to the ‘beggars can’t be choosers’ philosophy; I have plenty of work and enquiries, although not on the financially rewarding scale of Thornton’s proposal. I glance at the bloated folder. Eagerness displaces apprehension. ‘I’ll do it.’

  I love the thrill of winning a new contract. Ignites the Hollywood lights around my dreams.

  Thornton spills the folder’s content across the table and points to three photos. Trotter. He briefs me about her ‘installation’ in the Knight’s Arms as a part-time bar attendant to work hours that coincide with McMaster’s lunch breaks and shift completion. Gillian Trotter looks every bit the expensive escort, overdressed and over made-up. And over ugly. The snaps fail to disclose whether she is in disguise, but her proximity and demeanour with McMaster oozes passion of a family reunion.

  Other snaps of the officer complete the cast.
DI Phillip McMaster. I don’t flinch or speak. I remember him from my days at Worcester CID. We worked opposite shifts. Had I ever have been given the choice of working under either McMaster or Marchant, I honestly can’t say what my decision would have been. Today, I’ll approach this with an open mind.

  On Thornton’s winding up the meeting, I accept his recommendation to ‘trial run’ the Knight’s Arms for a spot of lunch. On my own. May as well eat and bill the MET for my time. Since migrating to the ranks of the self-employed, I am obsessed with extracting as much income as possible from every working hour. Never crossed my mind in the constabulary. Paired up with one of the guys, we’d stop at Maccas for coffee, chat for maybe half-an-hour, and think nothing of it. We were in the public domain, providing ‘police presence’ and available to respond to any emergency. We’d each earn £8 for those thirty minutes. Multiply that by a few timeouts each week, factor in hours spent exchanging gossip with colleagues and local business owners – which we entered on our duty sheets as information collation – and we’d probably cleared about £70 per week for a few bouts of joviality. Of course, there was a balance. Many after-hours call-outs and unpaid overtime was deemed part of the job.

  I walk into the pub with the confidence and deportment of a female CEO. Flop on a seat in a dusty alcove beneath a flickering fluorescent light. Difficult to see, difficult to be seen – but I do recognise the face behind the bar. No need to pull out the photos to double-check Gillian’s profile.

  With good fortune, a separate meals counter provides a haven for me to order a Chicken Schnitzel and cappuccino. I am conscious of standing out in a pub. Many times, I’ve cringed at guys’ reactions: elbows in the ribs; the sly comment, ‘get a load of her’; and then wallets appear and money changes hands after some poor sucker refuses to make a move on the woman who’s ‘asking for it’. Yeah, most guys believe that a single woman in a pub is on the make. I know different. Excuse my crassness, but they’re thinking with their dicks. Why can’t they accept that a girl has to eat, and might just want to drop in to a good value pub for a meal and a glass of cider? The greasy £2.99 café should not be the only venue where we can sit undisturbed.