Catalyst Page 14

  With a paper napkin off the table, she dabbed tenderly at his wet face and leaned towards him so that he could feel her breath on his damp skin.

  Valerie’s blue eyes fixed on his. His whole body stiffened. He was part spellbound, part terrorised. She was enthralling. ‘Thank you for standing up for me,’ she whispered, as he felt her hand delicately slide up the inside of his thigh.

  The trance was broken. He jumped to his feet.

  ‘That’s, that’s fine. Just fine. It’s OK.’

  Martin wanted to get away. Coming to the bar to meet this… siren was a big mistake.

  ‘I have to go,’ he blurted. ‘If you have information for me, please tell me now because I need to leave.’

  She leaned back in the seat. Engaging a man’s complete attention was not usually so difficult. This was just a challenge, that’s all. She still had faith in her natural abilities, even without the drug. Besides, she had other wraps. There would still be opportunities to placate him totally and have him entirely in her power.

  ‘You can’t go out into the cold all wet. My apartment is near here. We can get you dried off, then we can have a drink together and I’ll tell you everything.’

  He shook his head emphatically. ‘No. I don’t know what you game is, Valerie, and I would never judge you or your life choices, but we have to get this clear. You are not my type.’

  She smiled, coyly.

  ‘What type would you like me to be?’

  ‘I don’t think you understand,’ he answered. ‘You are really not my type.’

  Realisation dawned and she nodded a rueful nod.

  ‘Ah!’ she said. That explains it. ‘In that case, we can still go back to my apartment – as friends. The information will make it worth your while.’

  ‘Forget it.’ Martin began to back away. ‘Quite honestly, I doubt there ever was any information and I have no idea why you would choose me to try to lure back to your place for a night of whatever but I wish I’d followed my instincts and phoned you back to call the whole thing off. Good night, Valerie. It’s been… interesting to meet you and if there is something you need to tell me, please send me an email. The address is on our website.’

  With that, he headed for the exit to walk home in soddened trousers.

  Valerie watched him go. There was no point in trying to call him back. The demeanour she had maintained so carefully fell from her. She drained the rest of the vodka, picked up her bag and swore under her breath.

  ‘Bollocks.’

  She had failed. She had never failed before and she did not like the feeling.

  18

  Detective Inspector Jane Jackson of Sheffield CID sat behind her desk, carefully scrutinised the ten-by-eight print in her hand, and pulled a face of pained resignation. The image on the print was not the issue. That was clear enough. The matter she was agonising over was what she would be able to do with it.

  Across the other side of the desk, awaiting the verdict, was Detective Sergeant Will Copson. Without a word needing to be spoken, he could see the way it was heading. He felt exactly the same way about it, but it had to go before the inspector for confirmation.

  She sighed.

  ‘I think we can be pretty sure it is Wesley Hughes,’ she said.

  ‘I reckon so,’ nodded the sergeant.

  ‘But what does it actually give us? All it proves is that he was on Effingham Street at a certain time of a certain day but that’s it. The witness reported a possible gun sighting, but they couldn’t be certain. Possible? I can’t request a diving team to deploy on the strength of a possible gun sighting. What if it was a stick, or an old phone, or a bloody electric toothbrush – we’d look complete idiots and I’d get my arse kicked from here to Bramall Lane and back. It’s not enough.’

  She flung the print across the desk despairingly and Copson picked it up.

  ‘I agree, ma’am,’ he said with a grimace. ‘Pity though.’

  Jackson stood and wandered to gaze over the busy street below from the window.

  ‘Too right. We’ve been after this slippery bastard for too long. He’s the pilot fish that feeds off the parasites on the sharks’ skin and keeps its teeth clean for the next time it attacks. If we can get to him, we might be able to get him to give up some of the bigger fish, but he gives you nothing to grab him with. This,’ she waved her arm dismissively towards the picture in the sergeant’s hand, ‘doesn’t get us close enough.’

  ‘Righto, ma’am.’ Copson turned to leave but the inspector called him back.

  ‘She was the daughter of one of our officers, you say.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. PC Dave Wood of the road traffic division. His daughter.’

  Jackson nodded. ‘Get word back to him that we appreciate what she did. It’s good work. Say he should tell her that if she ever wants to make a profession of it, she should give us a call.’

  The sergeant smiled. ‘Will do.’

  ***

  Martin arrived back at the café from a trip to the suppliers. It had taken him longer than he had anticipated. The lunchtime rush was looming and he still had the visit from the accountant to look forward to. At this rate, he was struggling to get to the hospital this afternoon. He had not missed a day since Mrs Dawes was admitted and had pledged to be there every day, but she was a lot brighter now and didn’t need him so much. She would understand if he had to give it a miss, just this once. He had warned her he had a lot on.

  Tying his apron around his waist while mouthing greetings to two of his regulars, Martin stepped behind the counter. Maggie was spooning a portion of avocado and green bean pasta into a takeaway box for a customer and Kate was warming a jug of soya milk with a jet of hissing steam from the coffee machine.

  ‘Right, what needs doing?’ he asked.

  Maggie shrugged. ‘All in hand.’ She looked up and gestured with a tip of her head towards a table to her left.

  ‘Gentleman over there wanted to see you, though.’

  Martin followed the direction of her nod towards where a man of around 50 years old, with pinched features and round metal-rimmed glasses, sat alone and looked towards him expectantly. Martin acknowledged the eye contact with a small sheepish wave and the man allowed a brief hint of a smile to curl the edges of his tight-set mouth for the most fleeting fraction of an instant in response.

  ‘Who is he?’ Martin whispered, attempting to do so without moving his lips in case it was obvious to the stranger what he was asking.

  ‘How the bloody hell would I know?’ replied Maggie, less subtly. ‘He asked for you by name. He’s been there three quarters of an hour.’

  Ducking out was not an option but after scarcely escaping intact from the clutches of Valerie at the wine bar only a few hours earlier, Martin was suspicious. At least this guy didn’t look like he was about to come on with a big seduction play. He dipped a little deeper into his reserves of resolve and stepped from behind the counter.

  The man rose and extended his hand in readiness as Martin approached.

  ‘Brian Gibbs,’ he said. His handshake was firm and businesslike.

  Martin sat in the chair opposite but said nothing. Whoever this guy was and whatever he wanted, he would have to make the first move.

  ‘My apologies for arriving unannounced,’ said Brian. He was well-spoken and measured but appeared slightly on edge. ‘What I need to tell you is best imparted face to face and in an environment that offers total confidentiality. I reasoned that your business premises would be suitable.’

  His narrow eyes darted from side to side and he leaned forward to add, in hushed tones, ‘Are we able to speak freely here?’

  Inside, Martin’s spirits sagged. He had enough on without having to waste time on someone who behaved like he had just stepped out of the pages of a Le Carré novel.

  ‘Yeah, no worries.’

  ‘Good.’ Brian adjusted his posture in his chair and stared intently across the table. ‘I have information of the utmost importance for you. You must tak
e this information and act with the greatest urgency or a calamity will ensue. Believe me, I do not overstate the magnitude of the situation. Unless you put a stop to what is about to happen, we will suffer an environmental catastrophe with consequences that will last for generations to come.’

  Martin’s interest was caught but his guard remained up. He had been duped by empty promises of extraordinary revelations one time too many in the last twenty-four hours already and it was going to take more than a trail of smoke to get him excited.

  ‘I’m sorry, Brian, but I have no idea who you are and…’

  Brian held up the flat of his palm. ‘You’re sceptical, I understand,’ he said. ‘I’m getting ahead of myself, forgive me. Let me tell you who I am.’

  He eased back in his seat. ‘I worked for twenty-six years as a planning officer for Sheffield City Council, serving the last twelve of them as what is now known as the Head of Planning and Regeneration. They like to tinker with the job titles every now and again. I think it gives some people the feeling that they are more important than they actually are.

  ‘Anyway, I was forced to resign my position almost six months ago. I was foolish. I laid myself open to certain personal indiscretions in my private life which the hierarchy at the council became aware of. They told me they could prevent the information from leaking into the public domain only if I accepted an offer of early retirement and agreed to go.’

  ‘Sounds like blackmail.’

  Brian drew in a deep breath and held up his hands as if he were about to surrender. ‘I had my family to think of. It would have destroyed them.’

  Martin nodded that he understood the predicament.

  ‘Anyway, prior to leaving the council a great deal of my time and the department’s energy had been spent on the Swarbrook Hill project – have you heard of it? It’s a two hundred-acre village development to the east of the city boundary on land that was former industrial premises and a landfill site.’

  ‘We’re aware,’ said Martin. ‘We were represented at the public inquiries and registered our concerns over some of the contamination hot spots found by the Environment Agency and the risk of pollution caused by disturbing disused mine workings. We won a few concessions and we’re hoping the chief scientific officer is sympathetic to the issues we raised when he files his report to the planning committee. There are a lot more changes we’d like to see put into place.’

  ‘Don’t bet on it, Mr Bestwick,’ said Brian, ominously. ‘The top men at the council, and especially the leader, are particularly keen to get this through the planning stage smoothly and without delay. I shared many of your concerns and have tried to pressure the developers, at every stage of the process, to exercise due diligence over every important detail, but I believe my caution became an inconvenience to the council leader. I’m convinced that contributed to my premature exit from my post. I think he wanted someone in place who would be more prepared to turn a blind eye to some of the more contentious aspects of the project.’

  Martin’s attention was now completely engaged. ‘That is worrying.’

  ‘But that’s not the worst of it,’ Brian added, his expression becoming graver still. ‘Towards the end of my time in charge I heard tell of reports that pre-dated the investigations carried out specifically on this project. Very alarming reports. They were little more than rumours at that stage but deeply concerning rumours which, if proven to be true, would mean the entire development would have to be brought to a complete and immediate end. Unfortunately, my time in post ended before I could gather any evidence. I did raise the subject privately with the council leader and he denied there was any truth in my suggestions. He refused to allow me to pursue my inquiries officially. Again, I can’t entirely rule out in my own mind the possibility that my fall from grace and my raising these concerns with Cranford Hardstaff were not unconnected.’

  Hardstaff. That name keeps cropping up. Valerie had used it as a lure to get Martin to the wine bar and he speculated again what her motives might have been. He had less reason to be suspicious of the man now facing him across the table, but could he too be trying to snag Martin with a different sort of bait? Perhaps he should be more suspicious. What Brian had told him so far was alarming but where was his proof?

  ‘What do you expect me to do with this, Brian? Blackmail, conspiracy, rumour – we can’t base a campaign of resistance on that. We need evidence.’

  ‘I’m coming to that,’ Brian added with a self-satisfied grin.

  ‘I fulfilled my end of the non-disclosure agreement I signed by remaining silent for the first five months after I accepted the council’s terms, but my conscience would not rest. I was troubled by what I knew, dissatisfied by my actions, but then I saw you, Mr Bestwick, on the TV news one night, standing up to Hardstaff over the issue of a tree felling and you spurred me on, sir. I saw a man who was not prepared to allow himself to be pushed around by the powerful bureaucrats, no matter if it was at a personal cost, and I felt ashamed of myself. I vowed to do my duty, not as an employee of the council but as a servant of mankind and mother nature.’

  He paused for dramatic effect. Martin, intrigued if a little bemused, waited for him to deliver the crescendo.

  ‘I still had contacts. I approached one and he did me a great favour, at substantial risk to his own career, by securing me copies of the documents I needed.’ Brian reached into a black leather case at his feet and pulled out a plain brown A3 envelope. He placed it carefully on the table like it was the crown jewels and patted it twice.

  ‘Here they are,’ he declared, proudly.

  Brian kept his hand on the envelope, signalling that he was not quite prepared to surrender its contents yet.

  ‘You have heard, I presume, of the Trent Coal Preparation plant in Nottinghamshire?’

  Anyone involved in an environmental action group over the last half a century, especially in this part of the world, knew about the Trent Coal Preparation plant. One of the pioneers of developing smokeless fuel since the start of the twentieth century, their product had done so much to cut levels of the choking air pollution which hung like a permanent fog over so many industrialised urban areas but the processes they used created a different sort of danger.

  An explosion in the late-1960s and a fire in the mid-1980s were, from an ecological point of view, two of the worst industrial accidents the UK had ever known. The highest ever levels of harmful dioxins, the toxic by-products of the plant’s processes which have been shown to cause skin disease, cancers and infertility, were recorded in rivers and in farm livestock for miles around and for many years after.

  ‘Of course,’ said Martin.

  ‘Then you will be aware that the manufacturing processes and incineration of chemical waste were shown to produce two hundred and ten different types of dioxins and that the plant was used to manufacture thousands of tons of toxic chemicals derived from coal tar heat treatment and refinery. They included the one used to devastating effect as a herbicide and defoliant by the USA during their chemical warfare programme in the Vietnam War – the one known as Agent Orange.’

  ‘Yes, I was aware.’ Martin acknowledged, soberly.

  ‘The plant has long since closed and has been largely dismantled now, of course, but the company never revealed where they dumped all the contaminated debris and unwanted excess waste products, many of which can never be made safe. The report I began to investigate before I was removed from post was that one of their preferred dumping sites was former industrial land to the east of the Sheffield city boundary on the site now known as Swarbrook Hill. The rumour proved to be true and here,’ Brian patted the envelope on the table again, ‘is the proof.’

  He sat back and observed, waiting for the full weight of his words to settle. Martin stared blankly at Brian and then at the envelope. This was almost too much, the information too awful, the implications too dreadful. How could someone take all that in straight away?

  ‘This went on for years in the days when these matters
were far less stringently regulated than they are today – and it wasn’t only waste from the Trent Coal Preparation plant that was dumped at Swarbrook Hill. The site was also used to dispose of thousands of tonnes of contaminated fly ash from a waste incinerator plant in London. Pure fly ash contains ten times more dioxins than was left in soil by Agent Orange, which has been shown to be responsible for a huge number of birth defects and disease in Vietnam. The waste plant was generating 20 tonnes of this every day and a lot of it ended up at Swarbrook Hill.

  ‘If this building development is allowed to go ahead, they would be situating a community of 1,200 new homes on a time bomb. It is too appalling to contemplate what the effects could be if this dump site is disturbed by the construction work. One millionth of a gram of some dioxins are enough to kill a small rodent and there is Lord knows how much of this waste under the ground at Swarbrook Hill. I was in consultation with the developers almost from day one, six years ago, and I know their plans inside and out. If my calculations, based on the information in these files, are correct, then the school they plan to build will be slap bang on top of the main dump site. They cannot be granted planning permission. This development has to be stopped.’

  Martin nodded. His mind was racing through the steps he would have to take.

  ‘We’re only a small group but we have national affiliations, of course, and I’ll have to consult with them to make sure we do this properly, but if what you are telling me is confirmed in these documents, this is huge.’ He was talking through the thoughts that were bombarding his brain at the rate of a million a minute. Brian smiled. He got it.

  ‘It’s all here,’ he reassured.

  ‘Will you stand with us when we make this public?’ Martin asked. ‘Your story would lend us extra credibility.’

  ‘No,’ Brian gave an emphatic shake of the head. ‘That is my one condition of releasing these documents to you. If certain people at the city council find out that I played a part in handing you this information, I have no doubt that they will attempt to blacken my name with the disclosures they are holding against me. I must protect my family from that. I would also be contravening the non-disclosure agreements I signed as part of my departure and that would threaten my future financial security as well. My name must stay out of this.’