Trouble on the Heath (3 page)

Trevor Williams smelt trouble. His senses were finely tuned to trouble. In fact, if the Olympic Games held a ‘Smelling Trouble over 500 metres' event, Trevor would have been a gold medallist.

It started at the back of his neck and worked its way up and over his scalp in a matter of seconds. Then it would lunge down into his tummy and produce a knot of indigestion. It would then radiate outwards towards his hands and feet, until eventually he would feel his eyes turn, as they were doing now, to the source of the ‘Trouble'.

It was a mild-looking young man in a brown corduroy jacket and grey flannels. He was speaking to Cynthia, who looked after the filing.

Cynthia was following the Number One Golden Rule of the Planning Department, which was to pretend innocence. She was looking at her watch, which meant she would be telling the young man that the person he wanted to see was out of the office and wouldn't be back for some hours.

If this failed, she would move on to Rule Number Two, which would be to appeal to the visitor's sudden desire to get out of the Planning Department as soon as possible. She would do this by saying that if he left his phone number, the person he was looking for could phone him back in the comfort of his own home, when he would be sitting down with a nice glass of Chablis.

Yes! The young man was writing something down on a piece of paper that would be thrown away as soon as he left the office.

But something had gone wrong! The young man had stopped writing.

Trevor ducked down behind the filing cabinet. Damn! The young man had spotted him.

“I think your Head of Planning may have returned without you noticing,” Malcolm said politely to the girl. “I'd like to speak to him at once.”

Cynthia turned round to look at the Head of Planning's Office. She couldn't see Trevor.

“No, I don't think he has,” she said.

“I just saw him duck behind the filing cabinet,” said Malcolm pleasantly.

Malcolm actually enjoyed coming to the Planning Department. It was like reading a historical text. You had to distinguish between fact and fiction. When Julius Caesar tells us, in his
Gallic Wars
, that elks have no knees and so cannot get up if they fall over, we know it is fiction. It was exactly the same when Malcolm was told that the Head of Planning was not there, and yet he could see Trevor peering over a filing cabinet.

Trevor cursed himself. He had been meaning to get rid of the sign on the door that read ‘Head of Planning'. He gave a shrug of resignation and beckoned Malcolm into his office.

“It's about this Planning Application for the demolition of numbers 26 and 27 Highgrove Park,” said the young man.

“And who might you be?” asked Trevor. It was always a good idea to ask this question, since it implied that they had no business to be making the lives of honest, hard-working civil servants more difficult than they already were.

“I'm Malcolm Thomas,” said Malcolm. “I'm Chairman of the Highgrove Park Residents' Association. We want to know who is lodging the Planning Application. It says on the application ‘Berners Ltd'. We've heard rumours that some Russian is behind it. Is that right?”

“Well, Mr Thomas.” Trevor was sure of his ground here. “We know no more than you. If we receive an application from a company that's all we know too. You'd need to go to Companies House to find out who owns the company. They don't have to tell us.”

“That's what I thought,” said Malcolm. “It's just that one of the members of the Residents' Association has received a threatening message in the post.”

Trevor gave Malcolm a sideways glance. “Really?” he said. “Are you sure it's to do with the planning application?”

“Well, not completely,” said Malcolm, “but it's all we can think of. The letter had a Russian stamp, so …”

Trevor shrugged. It was a shrug that suggested a desire to achieve great things for the public good, but a complete helplessness to do so. It was a shrug that conveyed friendly cooperation and the desire to please, but, at the same time, told of the crushing burdens of public service.

Malcolm understood all this, and turned to go. But then he stopped and asked, “By the way, what do you think of the proposed development?”

“Oh! I can't take a view. That's up to the Planning Committee,” smiled Trevor, relieved at the turn the conversation was taking. He'd be rid of this person in a few minutes and then the office could get on with the real business of tea and biscuits.

“I just wondered whether you have a personal view,” replied Malcolm.

“I'm not allowed to,” said Trevor enthusiastically. And it was true. He had absolutely no interest in whether the proposed development was in keeping with the other houses in Highgrove Park, or whether it would ruin the ponds on the Heath, or destroy the wildlife in the area. He would never be able to afford to live in such a desirable place, so why should he care? He had to remain neutral.

Malcolm sighed. “Well, thanks for all your help,” he said, and made for the door.

That was too easy, thought Trevor. I need to mix it up a bit more.

So just as Malcolm reached the door Trevor called out, “Oh, Mr Thomas! Strictly speaking I shouldn't be telling you this, but yes, I think it is a Russian company.”

Malcolm nodded his thanks, and left feeling how very helpful the new Head of Planning was. He wasn't to know that Trevor Williams had a secret reason for being so helpful.

Nigel was the first there. He was closely followed by the Great Dane with only one eye called Faustus, then the Doberman called Midge. A lot of peeing went on, followed by a lot of sniffing. By the time the owners had caught up with their dogs, the dogs were busy exploring the fascinating world of bottoms. Any bottom would do, whether it was the bottom of another dog or the bottom of a hedge, fence or lamp post.

Malcolm looked at his watch. It was

10.25 a.m. “Well, it's not quite the mass turn-out I'd hoped for,” he said.

“Actually I can't stay,” said Major Riddington. “I was just walking the dog. Faustus! Here boy! Can't stop. Sorry.” And he continued on his way.

Malcolm turned to Midge's owner, whose name he could never remember, although he'd asked her several times. “I can't see the paper running a photo with a caption ‘Angry Residents Protest' with just the two of us.”

“Oh.” What's Her Name? sounded crestfallen. “Do you think anyone else will turn up?”

“I told the photographer to be here at

10.30. It's 10.26 now.”

“Wait for me!” Patrick Simpson, the lawyer, came running up. “Has it all happened? Where are the others?”

“I think we are ‘the others',” said Malcolm. “Not exactly a record turn-out.”

“We'll just have to space ourselves out,” said Patrick.

“Won't that look worse?” asked Midge's owner.

“There's the photographer!” exclaimed Malcolm. “Oh, no it isn't,” he added under his breath. “It's Hitler.”

“Is it really?” asked Midge's owner excitedly. She was secretly a fan of Nazi regalia.

“Mr Kendrick!” said Malcolm. “I'm glad you were able to make it. As you see we're short on numbers.”

Mr Kendrick looked at them with a blank expression.

“Short on numbers for what?” he asked.

“For the mass demonstration against the development here opposite your house!” said Malcolm. He was already irritated by Mr Kendrick's presence, although he knew he shouldn't be. He had been hoping to hide Mr Kendrick behind some of the other residents. He imagined having a Hitler look-alike amongst the protesters might not win them much sympathy amongst the readers of the local paper.

“Mass demonstration?” muttered Mr Kendrick blankly.

“We voted for it at the last Residents' Association meeting,” said Malcolm.

“Did we?” asked Midge's owner excitedly.

“Yes of course we did!” Malcolm could feel himself getting ruffled.

“I didn't vote for a mass demonstration,” said Mr Kendrick.

“But … but … Anyway you're here.” Malcolm was trying to control himself. “That's what matters.”

“I was just going inside,” said Mr Kendrick.

“But please stay!” put in Patrick Simpson. “As you can see we need everyone we can get.”

“But what's in it for me?” asked Mr Kendrick.

“You live opposite the proposed development!” exploded Malcolm. “You're the one most affected by it!”

“Look! Here's the photographer!” said Patrick.

A friendly girl in a brown bomber jacket ambled up to the group. She had a fancy SLR camera hanging from her neck.

“Hi!” she said.

“Hello, I'm Malcolm Thomas. I'm the Chairman of the Residents' Association,” said Malcolm. “I'm sorry there aren't more of us.”

“That's OK,” replied the girl. “My name's Martha. I'm from New Zealand.”

“I've got an aunt in New Zealand!” exclaimed Midge's owner. “Her name's Dancey Willis. I'm Isobel Soper.”

“Isobel! Of course!” Malcolm kicked himself.

“I know Dancey Willis!” smiled Martha from New Zealand.

“You do!” cried Midge's owner. “Well isn't that a coincidence?”

“Not really. We live next door to each other. It would be difficult not to know her.”

“No, I mean isn't it a coincidence that you should live next door to my aunt?”

“But we've been neighbours for years so it isn't really a …”

“Perhaps we should get on with the photograph?” suggested Malcolm, exercising his authority as chairman.

“Are you taking a photograph?” asked Martha from New Zealand.

“Well … er … isn't that what you've come for?” replied Malcolm.

“Absolutely!” said Martha. “I'm going to take lots of photos. I specialise in vegetarian close-ups.”

“What are they?” put in Midge's owner.

“Let's just get on with it, shall we?” suggested Malcolm.

“Is this all there are?” said another voice. It belonged to a tall man in a raincoat with greased-down hair. In fact he was the newspaper's photographer. “Not much of a protest, is it?”

“I've got to get home,” said Mr Kendrick.

“Please! Please! Please stay!” cried Malcolm holding on to Mr Kendrick's sleeve. Nigel started barking at this. “Shut up! Nigel!”

“I mean, how many are there of you?”

“Five!” said Malcolm. “That's quite enough.”

“Well it's not going to get on the front page,” said the photographer.

“I've got things to do at home,” complained Mr Kendrick.

“Please stay!” whimpered Malcolm. “Just one minute!”

“All right,” said the photographer. “Try to look angry.” He pulled a small Sony digital camera from his pocket.

“Is that all you're using?” said Malcolm.

“It'll do for this,” said the photographer. “There! Done it!”

“We weren't posed!” exclaimed Malcolm.

“And you've got to get the site of the proposed development in the shot!” said Patrick. “It's behind you.”

“Can Midge be in the shot?” asked Midge's owner.

“Yes of course! The more the merrier. Come on, Nigel!” said Malcolm.

“Wave your fists in the air!” said the photographer. “Like the girl in the bomber jacket's doing.”

“What are we protesting about?” asked Martha from New Zealand.

“Got it!” said the photographer, who slipped his camera back into his pocket and wandered off.

“Don't you want our names?” Malcolm shouted after him.

That lunchtime, as Malcolm was telling the story of the disastrous protest rally and photo-shoot, the phone rang. Their six-year-old, Freddie, was the first one there. He listened and then put the phone back on the receiver.

“Who was it?” asked Angela.

“Don't know,” said Freddie.

“What did they say?” asked Malcolm.

“Stop, or your kid gets it,” said Freddie.

Anton Molotov hated this sort of job. For a start he wasn't very good at them. The truth is he'd always intended to be a concert pianist rather than a gangster.

Becoming a gangster had all started as a holiday job. That nice Mr Grigori Koslov had offered him three weeks' temporary work as a night-watchman. Anton Molotov had just started studying music at the St Petersburg State Conservatory.

The long vacation ran from the end of June to the beginning of September. When he found, at the end of the three weeks, that nobody said anything about leaving his holiday job, he stayed on. He was, after all, earning what seemed at the time like a fortune.

It was only in September, when he wanted to go back to the Conservatory, that he found things weren't so simple. He was told that he had to stay on as night-watchman. When he enquired why, he was told that it was because he'd seen all the stuff coming in and going out.

Now, Anton had indeed seen all the stuff going in and out of the warehouse, but he hadn't a clue what the ‘stuff' was, and, being at the time more interested in music, he hadn't bothered to find out.

On 1st September he did indeed return to the Conservatory, and didn't report for night-watchman duty that night. The next day, two men came into the classroom and hauled him out, despite the protests of the teacher, and he was never allowed to go back.

“I cannot allow you, Anton Molotov, to wander around, talking to anybody you choose about what you've seen! You, who have been a witness to all our secrets!” That's what that nice Mr Grigori Koslov had said to him. Anton wanted to point out that he didn't know a thing about Grigori Koslov's secrets, but he replied, “But I want to be a concert pianist! I want to study at the Conservatory!”

“I like you, Anton Molotov,” Grigori Koslov had said. “I will make sure you complete your studies.”

A few nights later, when Anton was on guard in the warehouse as usual, a truck drove into the unloading bay and two men threw out a rolled-up carpet. The carpet contained none other than Vadim Volkov, who was Anton's teacher. It was he who had done all the protesting when Anton had been taken out of class.

Vadim Volkov, however, refused to speak to Anton, and sat sulking in a corner of the warehouse. Perhaps he blamed Anton for his current situation.

The next night, a lorry drove into the unloading bay. Several men in black balaclava helmets opened the back and hauled out a grand piano.

Vadim Volkov still refused to speak to Anton, but he sat at the keyboard and played for hours on end, ignoring his former pupil.

Some weeks later, when Grigori Koslov asked Anton how his studies were going, Anton explained how the teacher refused to speak to him.

The next night, Anton turned up at the warehouse to find Vadim Volkov seated, as usual, at the piano, but this time his head was missing.

From that moment Anton knew his fate was sealed. He was going to be a gangster. So he accepted his fate, because, after all, the money was pretty good. For the next few years, Anton focussed all his efforts on keeping in Grigori Koslov's good books.

And that was how Anton came to be sitting in a car in a street in north London, England, instead of on stage at the Philharmonic Hall, St Petersburg.

In his pocket was a photo of some kid and its mother. His task was to grab the kid but not the mother. That was by no means an easy job. In his experience mothers could play up pretty rough, when you tried to grab their kids. It always surprised him how violent a mother can get.

Anton remembered one bungled job, where the mother had pulled a Walther P99 semiautomatic pistol on him. He had nearly had an accident which would have meant changing his underwear, because he knew any mother who carried a Walther P99 wouldn't hesitate to fire it, if he tried to grab her kid. Still, that was back in Russia. That was the sort of thing one had come to expect these days. The fall of Communism had brought violence and organised crime, of which, of course, he realised he was part. Armed mothers were nothing new in Russia.

But this was England. People, especially mothers, didn't normally carry semi-automatic pistols around with them. This should be easy – or easier.

Anton sat for some hours, wondering what sort of supper he would get when he'd finished the job. He had just settled on going for a Tex Mex, because there weren't too many of them in Moscow, when he suddenly saw them. The mother was holding the boy's hand, as mothers do, and the boy was jumping around like he was on a pogo stick.

Anton waited until they got nearer the car. Then he calmly and deliberately stepped out of the car and walked quietly up to the woman, produced a can of Mace pepper spray from his pocket and gave her a quick squirt in the face. He then grabbed the boy's hand and whisked him into the car, while the mother fell to the floor gasping for breath.

Anton would be in South London, heading for Gatwick, by the time the mother recovered her senses.

Well, that was what was supposed to happen.

But it didn't.

Anton had parked the car slightly wide of the pavement. The result was that, when he calmly and deliberately stepped out of the car, he caught his foot on the unusually high kerb and went sprawling across the pavement right at the feet of the mother and her son.

His can of Mace flew out of his hand and went spinning across the paving stones into the gutter.

Angela let go of Freddie's hand, and knelt down to assist the man who had fallen in front of them.

“That was a heavy fall,” she said to him. “Are you OK?”

“Yes! Yes!” said Anton.

“I hope you haven't twisted anything,” said Angela as she helped her would-be assailant to his feet.

“He dropped this,” said Freddie, and he handed over the can of Mace to his mother.

Anton made a grab for it, but was too late to stop Angela from reading the words ‘Self-Defence Mace Spray'.

She looked quickly up at the man she had just helped.