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
