Gone to Ground (31 page)

"And you're not lonely?"

"Course I'm bloody lonely. But I've got the dog and a bottle of good Scotch. Couple next door, old as Methuselah, but not above telling me what's wrong with the way I've set my runner beans, or offering to lend a hand when the septic tank wants some attention. Outlive me, the pair of them."

The inside was cozy, if a little cramped: a couple of armchairs and a two-seater settee that had seen service, Will thought, wherever Challoner had lived before; photographs of a young man and woman in robes on the day they had received their degrees; grandchildren, three of them, beaming out from between simple wooden frames. Knick-knacks, a few books, wildflowers in a vase, a small TV; everything clean and in its place, much as it would have been, Will imagined, when Challoner's wife was still alive. Just a few scrapings of mud on the rug and the telltale black and white hairs on the settee to suggest a little slackening off.

"Tea or whisky? Take your pick."

"Whisky sounds good, but I'd best stick to tea."

"Suit yourself."

One of the armchairs had a footstool in front of it and Will chose the other and sat, thumbing through a week-old edition of
Radio Times,
while the dog watched him carefully from the doorway, and Challoner, whistling tunelessly, busied himself in the kitchen.

"Now then," Challoner said, when they were both settled, "tell me what you want to know."

"Howard Prince."

"What about him?"

"Anything. Any dealings you might have had with him; anything he might be concerned to keep quiet, out of the public eye."

A smile came to Challoner's face. "How long have you got?"

"As long as it takes."

Challoner lifted his mug of tea and held it in both hands and, as if this were some kind of sign, the dog jumped onto the settee, curled up in one corner and feigned sleep.

"First time he came to our attention, that would have been, oh, arse-end of the seventies, early eighties, maybe. This builder who'd been working for Prince, fair-sized little firm, doing work on some houses Prince had bought from the Goal Board, came to us with a story about how Prince had got hold of them on the cheap. Sour grapes, of course, often is, that kind of accusation. Someone out for revenge over money, jealousy maybe, some sexual shenanigans. Prince thrown a lot of work the builder's way, and then, after some row or other, dropped him in favour of somebody else."

"You investigated it all the same?" Will asked.

"What he said, fitted in with one or two other things we'd heard, whispers, you know. And this wasn't just some penny-ante deal, there was serious money involved. At least two hundred houses, north of the county, one way or another they'd fallen into disrepair. Get worse after the miners' strike, of course, but that's a different story. What Prince was doing, renovating some places, then selling them for four or five times the paltry price he'd paid for them; others he was just bulldozing, whole streets of them, building new ones in their stead. Making a small fortune."

"So what was the allegation? Prince had been doling out backhanders?"

"Backhanders, fancy dinners, weekends in some country house hotel, the odd holiday. Usual malarkey."

"What did he say when you put it to him?"

Challoner laughed. "Never worked in the Fraud Squad, did you?"

Will shook his head.

"Way we investigate, whoever's affairs we're looking into, he's the last one we talk to. Accumulate the evidence first and then, if it looks like there's a case to answer, that's when we'll go after the offender."

"What if he gets wind of it and does a bunk?"

"It can happen. But if it does, well, not exactly tantamount to admitting guilt, but near as. And, anyhow, in this case, whatever whispers came back to him down the track, Prince stayed put. We started taking statements from witnesses and found, yes, there'd been hospitality, lavish some of it, but as to where or when that becomes bribery, it's a fine line. Especially when, down the road, there's a jury to convince. Then this one official came forward, prepared to swear he'd seen Prince and one of his bosses in a nice little tête-à-tête, money changing hands. Later, we discovered the boss had been rimming this bloke's wife for a twelve month and he'd have said bloody anything to get back at him. But by then we'd got a warrant to examine Prince's books—bank accounts, contracts, VAT returns, the whole works. Prince thought he'd been clever, kept them lodged with his solicitor, as if somehow that made them sacrosanct."

Challoner shook his head. "I'll never forget the look on that solicitor's face when we went marching into his office. Up on his high horse like he was three-day bloody eventing. Soon cut him down to size. Took away every scrap of paper with Prince's name to it. Box after bloody box."

"It proved your case?"

"In the end it was all we had. Jury threw the rest out of court. Defense barrister had pretty much pulled us to bits. Hearsay, uncorroborated allegations, petty jealousy. All we could convict Prince on, failure to submit statutory records for the purposes of Company House."

"He walked away with a fine."

"Banned from running a company or being a director for five years. Judge saw our side of it, didn't want to see him getting off scot-free."

"And you think he was guilty?"

"Bloody sure of it."

Will sighed and looked away. The collie whimpered as if he were now really asleep and something had disturbed his dreams.

"Here," Challoner said, reaching for Will's mug. "Let me top that up with some hot."

"No, it's okay."

"Come on, give it here."

While Challoner was in the kitchen, Will went to the door and looked out, the view not so different from his own at home—hillier certainly, more trees, but almost devoid of houses, habitation. He tried to imagine what it would be like to be there all the time, no other adult company. What it was like for Lorraine.

"Old times that," Challoner said at his shoulder. "Not what you were wanting."

"Maybe not."

"Best come back inside, then. There's more."

"YOU KNOW IT'S GOING TO PISS DOWN WITH RAIN, DON'T you?"

Helen cast a glance up at the sky, which was an almost uniform steely gray, if anything darker toward the east. "A shower," she said, with a small shrug of her shoulders. "This time of the year, it's what you expect."

They were making a slow circuit of the hospital grounds, Will with his waterproof partly fastened, Helen with a scarf tucked down inside the collar of her dressing gown and a pair of borrowed tennis shoes on her feet.

"Besides," Helen said, "you've got your anorak, what do you care?"

"Just as long as you're not expecting me to take it off and give it to you once the heavens open."

"Chivalry, Will? I don't think so."

"Absolutely. All that standing back and opening doors, laying down cloaks over puddles, that all went out with Walter Raleigh, right?"

"Germaine Greer, at least."

"Who?"

"Come on, Will, even you know who Germaine Greer is."

"She's the one who walked off
Celebrity Island.
Or was it
Big Brother?
"

"One thing I've always admired about you, Will. The way you keep abreast of ideas. Don't keep your head stuck in lads' mags or the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, like some."

"Just because you saw me reading
The Guardian
once, don't let that fool you."

Helen paused long enough to light a cigarette. "Lorraine, how's it going with that job she was after?"

"Seems to have got through the interview. Just waiting for her CRB clearance, and that's it."

"Not holding her breath, then."

"I don't know. It should be pretty quick."

Helen drew smoke down deep into her lungs. "Let's hope there's not another Lorraine Grayson out in Wisbech or somewhere, with a string of convictions for drugs offenses or molesting small boys."

"There's a lot of that in Wisbech?"

"Probably no more than anywhere else."

Will took another look up at the sky. "Are you sure you don't want to go back inside? Or at least find somewhere to sit down? This is making me giddy."

Helen pointed. "There's a bench over there."

She winced slightly as she sat down and Will's face asked the question.

"I'm fine," Helen said. "Now tell me again about Prince. After the court case. Just to make sure I've got it clear in my head."

According to Terry Challoner, Howard Prince had pretty much gone off the radar during the five years he'd been banned from running a company. There were stories that he'd gone abroad; others that he was living the life of a recluse somewhere in the Fens. On one occasion, police were called to a disturbance at a hotel in Ely—Will would be able to check this easily enough—at which Prince and his wife had been having dinner. Shouting, screaming, smashing of plates. That apart, Challoner didn't hear anything about him until ninety-two: there were grum-blings about a bid he'd made on behalf of a firm called Shotton Properties, for whom he was working as a consultant. Usual kind of thing, obtaining preferential treatment by unfair methods. Fraud Squad officers had poked around, asked a few questions, the whole thing seemed to die a death of its own accord. That was that.

"Then, a few years later," Challoner had told Will, "ninety-four or five, there were more rumblings, louder this time, and with a sight more involved. Major development project out at Worksop: new shopping centre, flats, the whole works, you might say."

Will had smiled to acknowledge Challoner's joke and let him continue.

"This feller came to us, former councillor—Allen, that's the name, I think, Michael Allen. Self-righteous son of a bitch, but straight, or so it seemed. According to him, Prince had been up there greasing palms, making promises like they were going out of style. Claimed to have evidence, time and place, so, fair enough, we started asking around. Sour grapes, some said, lost his seat on the council, Allen, and been stirring up trouble ever since. But by then there seemed to be enough truth in it to persevere. And there were signs, you know, someone driving round in a new car, brand-new extension going up on somebody's house, that kind of thing. But this councillor, ex-councillor, his evidence was holding it all together. So there we are, thinking we've got enough to go to a judge, ask for a warrant, and wham, in walks Allen and claims it was all a mistake. Withdraws his evidence, very sorry, got carried away, didn't know what I was doing, none of it was true."

"He'd been got at," Will said.

"Course he had. We did everything we could to get him to change his mind, up to and including threatening to prosecute him for wasting police time. Nothing doing. Six months later, the whole thing fell apart of its own accord, something to do with the land they were intending to build on not being structurally viable. After that we didn't feel too bad. If Prince had been handing out freebies, then he was out of pocket for nothing."

"And there's nothing else?" Will had asked. "More recent?"

Challoner had shaken his head. "Not of the same order, no. The occasional rumour, but that's par for the course, keep your ear to the ground, it happens all the time."

"But there was something?"

"Something, aye." Challoner had fetched a pipe from a sideboard drawer, sniffed at the bowl, and set it between his teeth. "Don't fill it with tobacco anymore, just the habit, I suppose. That and the smell. Something good about the smell. Anyhow, Prince. He'd been back in business on his own account a good while and doing well. Big projects, too—hotels, student apartments, a new estate out on the edge of town.

"Then—this was no more than a few years back—a whole raft of houses, ex-council, came up for sale in Forest Fields. Local housing association made a bid for them, thought they were pretty much home and dried, till Prince came in over the top of them. Only problem he had then, sitting tenants, some of them, weren't of a mind to move. Refused point blank, despite all of Prince's offers to rehouse them, cash bonuses, whatever. Lo and behold, just a few months later, they'd changed their mind. Couldn't get out fast enough."

"Intimidation?"

Challoner nodded. "So it seemed. Little things at first, wheelie bins turned upside down, rubbish spilled all over house fronts, graffiti on walls. After that it got worse: shit through the letter box, an elderly couple mugged on their way home, pensions stolen. Top it all, one house set ablaze, no one hurt, thank God, but it could've been a lot nastier than it was. Place burned almost to the ground."

"And this was down to Prince?"

"Not in a way that we could ever prove."

"Too much of a coincidence, surely?"

"His firm put out a press release, deploring the general lawlessness in the area and the lack of respect for private property. Promised that things would improve after the rebuilding they were planning had taken place. Even had the gall to suggest the police send out more foot patrols."

"And you couldn't touch him?"

"The local lads pulled in a few kids, made some arrests. One youth charged with arson, as I remember, not sure if it ever got to court. But no one would admit as much as having heard Prince's name." Challoner tapped his pipe. "What do they say about the devil? Something about supping with a long spoon? If Prince was behind what happened, he was so far behind as to not leave a trace."

While Will was recounting the story, Helen had listened carefully, blanking out the people walking close to where they were sitting, the sounds of traffic, the fact that the first drops of rain were beginning to fall.

"The year Prince was up in court—eighty-two was it?"

"Thereabouts."

"He didn't exactly walk away scot-free, but if the Fraud Squad case was as strong as Challoner said, it sounds as if the jury did him a real favour."

"You think they might have been got at?"

"It happens. And Prince—if what Challoner told you was right—bribery for him seems pretty much a way of life."

"Or intimidation."

"You're thinking about the witness in that business out at Worksop?"