I was sat in Lady Victoria’s executive chair in the bowels of the New Realist Gallery, with just the gentle hum of her dehumidifier for company, watching the activity above via her security screen. The system had recently been installed by the ever-reliable Fin Heptonstall, who naturally favoured the software used by the Trust. I could have watched it all from home, but that would have been cheating, besides I might want to make a timely intervention. Vic used to claim that you could tell by the intensity of the sound coming from her conditioning device just where Tuffy had got to in his daily round of adjusting windows, opening and closing the street doors and especially when he was out the back by the bins. Now with the new cameras, all was on show, all the time.
It was the opening day of the grand travelling exhibition of Steam West’s plans for the future of the county’s heritage. These days my fixed point of reference for understanding any social encounter is Charlie. Today she was low key, as was I, strictly one of the backroom boys. But it was her social orientation that cued my attention. I adjusted one of the cameras slightly and saw the object of her curiosity. It was Chief Constable Wainwright, who had clearly found a dead spot in security. She was adopting a power pose, but she didn’t seem to exude the quiet confidence that’s meant to go with it. Her self-hugging, folded arms practically crushing her hat. She was dressed, as usual, in the baggy white shirt and black trousers version of her uniform. Not having been the organiser of the event I had no idea whether she was here by invitation or not. Still, we’d not crossed swords for a while so I decided to have a word, or two.
‘This is a nightmare.’ She declared.
‘Oh, I don’t know, seems quite a convivial gathering.’
‘I meant this plan, a congestion nightmare.’
‘Well, only during various phases of construction, par for the course surely?’
‘Turning even more of the country into a heritage theme park.’
I moved a fraction closer and adopted a more confidential tone; ‘You know you’re not at all like other senior officers I’ve met, not that I’ve met that many you understand. They’d have turned-up much more formally attired to a do such as this.’
‘Men you mean.’
‘Oh, indeed. Edoardo, my tailor don’t you know, often tells of how ranking officers used to creep into his premises asking for alterations to their uniforms, for the more distinguished look.’
‘Vanity.’
‘No doubt. But, easier to adopt the commanding attitude if one is particularly smartly turned out on parade, one would think. And, though it’s hardly my place to say, it is rather obvious from your gait that you have a tight, trim figure below the crumpled...’
‘Shut it! Your Charlotte has been watching since you crept over. My men, have always taken it for granted, I’m gay.’
‘Oh! Right. And you think that helps with crowd control. But surely if you had a fully tailored uniform with traditional skirt, the right heals, and were prepared to flirt in both a nice and nasty way, that would be even more effective at keeping the zoo in order. And more authentic.’
‘Is this all you?’ She said, accusatively changing the subject. ‘Your Trust is just listed as one of seven partners in the consortium. It would be just like you to be the organising brain at the centre of this spider’s web of intrigue.’
‘Better to think of my role as, well a facilitator, helping to make what others want, happen!’
‘This, influence you seem to have over everyone, how does it work?’
‘Ah! The soft power thing. Well. That would be telling.’
‘I was approached by a very senior officer at an association meeting the other day, he said he wanted to “clarify” - that was the word he used - why I’d been turned down for the last few posts I’d applied for. He claimed my work in the peninsula was vital to London, almost as if we were some sort of adjunct to where the action is. I’m supposed to be keeping a lid on all sorts of things.’
‘Top bureaucrats do have a terribly obscure way of talking about things.’
‘And still, despite the Head Boy taking over, ever more files featuring your name, land on my desk.’
‘I suppose, being a loyal subject of the Crown, arouses deep suspicion these days...’
‘What’s this?’ She said pointing to some imaginative architect’s drawings.
‘Ah! Yes, in order to reinstate the full forecourt at the Abbey station we’ve had to purchase the short stretch of street adjacent to it.’
‘But...’
‘Yes, your eyes do not deceive you, within a few months the Railway Arms will have reverted to being a traditional pub, the original greasy spoon cafe will re-emerge to complement the eventually revived refreshment rooms at the station, and the old garage will miraculously re-appear again - with a genuine pre-war petrol pump.’
‘But this is all obstructing the pavement!’
‘Which is an illusion, the current wide pavement is mainly made up of land owned by the properties. That’s how we out-smart planning regulations.’
‘And just where do you think you’ll find such a petrol pump in this day and age?’
‘We already have it. It’s been in Jack’s lock-up for years.’
‘What! Right. Now you tell me, right now, where this lock-up is, my team have been hunting for it forever. We have strong reason to believe...’
‘You don’t wanna know.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, it would only cause embarrassment.’
‘Oh dear, how sad, never mind. Give!’
‘I meant to you. Jack’s been expecting you. He has the documents to hand; he can prove nothing is knocked-off.’
‘How come you’ve got these GWR insignia everywhere, not even the current operator can use them!’
‘Because every one is an enlargement from old photos that we own. We bought the publisher who bought out the previous publisher who spent all that time acquiring old photographic collections. They used to operate from part of the old maintenance depot across the way.’
‘Wait a minute, I’m beginning to see this now. This isn’t about old steam trains, they’re just a sort of “loss leader”. This is an old fashioned land grab. Old buildings for restoration, to create prestige buildings for high rents and expensive leases. What if the government holds out, or the unions won’t budge?’
‘We just keep on coming. I doubt they realise yet that we already rent the upper storeys of the Abbey station building, company HQ as it happens, although no one ever goes there, we’ve already got “Station House” on our letterhead.’
‘Someone will challenge you, I will, if I can find a legitimate reason.’
‘We have our defences set.’
‘What?’
‘A ghost from the past. Your old sparring partner, Henry “never plead guilty” Walpole is already on our team.’
‘Oh, my god!’
At which point Charlie wandered over; ‘Morning ma’am.’
‘Sparkwell.’
‘Is he behaving himself?’
‘He just tried to pick me up!’
‘Indeed. I usually find he has ulterior motives on such occasions.’
‘He does? What?’
‘Alas, he’s not taken me into his confidence. But it probably involves misdirection, distraction or disorientation; followed by sleight of hand, or you, simply not noticing anything he doesn’t want you to.’ Charlie had been looking around the room in a suspicious manner as she said all this.
‘I see. Excuse me a moment, I must take a closer look at those panels over there.’
When Wainwright was out of earshot, I said; ‘You really shouldn’t.’
‘I’ve spent far too long following you around, not to!’
‘So, what have you observed this morning Watson?’
‘I’ve been chatting to E. Bloomfield-Jones, founder and managing director of Bloomfield-Jones Consulting, the consortium’s PR company.’
‘Ah! I’ve not had the pleasure.’
‘I’ll tell you something funny, she’s a woman too.’
‘Good lord.’
‘And you might well have had the pleasure, she was a contemporary of Lady Victoria’s at St. Hilda’s, an ex-dancing partner perhaps?’
‘I’d better make efforts to find out!’
No comments:
Post a Comment