It had taken a few weeks for Matt Carstairs to investigate all the members of Allsthwaite Parish Council, but by late November he had come up with the information Tom Young required.
Meeting well away from York was essential and, over the many years of their association, they had got used to seeking out secluded places to meet up in. This time Matt had arranged a small pub down a backstreet in Sunderland. He was there before Tom and ordered two beers, taking them to a table in a quiet, dimly lit corner of the dingy lounge bar.
Driving up the A19, Tom thought pleasurably about his retirement plans. A yacht moored in the Bahamas and a penthouse overlooking a bay. Reluctantly he put these pictures from his mind as he parked near to the Dog and Gun pub that had been chosen for their meeting.
Tom soon found Matt in the pub and, after the usual greetings, he settled himself back against the elderly, squabbed seat and looked narrowly over the rim of his glass. ‘So, Allsthwaite parish councillors are not all whiter than white, I take it? What have you got for me?’
Matt Carstairs smirked into his beer then put the glass down carefully. ‘It’s even better than I’d anticipated,’ he said. ‘The leader of the parish council, one Christopher Jones, is our eco-warrior, as I said when we last met. And what a past he has.’
Matt obviously had good information and was going to spin out his moment of glory. Tom could wait; things were shaping up well. He nodded his approbation.
‘Many years ago down in the deep south, our Mr Jones was addicted to various substances: cannabis, heroin, etc. He shared an extremely insalubrious squat with like-minded addicts. And then an event occurred in this squat that caused our Mr Jones not only to flee the area, but to turn his life around, get clean and become the paragon of the community that we see in Allsthwaite today.’
‘And this event was…?’ Tom was thinking Aids and related deaths, or maybe fights among addicts for their supplies.
‘Murder,’ Matt said softly and with intense satisfaction.
Tom cocked an eyebrow at this. Murder was serious business. If Christopher Jones had been mixed up in that in his past incarnation… Oh, what couldn’t he do with that information? ‘Go on,’ he said softly.
Matt chuckled. He could see his share of the booty dancing before his eyes already. ‘It seems one of his regular dealers got greedy and tried to cut out the supplier higher up the chain. Big mistake, as it turned out. He came to a nasty end one night on the end of a knife down a back alley and it so happens our Mr Jones was in the vicinity and witnessed it.’
‘He didn’t feel so moved as to report the matter to the police, I take it,’ Tom said drily.
‘No,’ Matt said soberly. ‘He was warned what would happen to him: possibly not as nice an end as our dealer friend’s. That’s when he disappeared from the squat and got clean, appearing some years later in Allsthwaite with a wife and two kids and “greener than green”, if you take my meaning. He would certainly lead the villagers in any campaign against Bookwood Developments. Greenbelt land is almost sacred to him.’
Tom smiled gently. ‘Well done, Matt. However, sacred though Mr Jones may regard this land, he could be made to see the error of his ways were his wife and children exposed to some … risk, don’t you think? Bookwood Developments have fingers in many pies and were it to be known…’
Matt nodded. ‘His life would be down the tube and it would leave his wife and children exposed to danger ever after.’
‘So, that’s our Mr Jones.’ Tom sipped his beer reflectively. ‘If he were out of the way, so to speak, is there anyone else ready to step up and take over the campaign?’
‘Joshua Copeland,’ Matt said with great satisfaction.
‘And he is...?’
‘Clerk to Allsthwaite Parish Council, born and bred there, and he’s now in his late fifties.’
Tom was intrigued. What mischief was to be found in Allsthwaite during the last forty or fifty years? ‘Surely Mr Copeland hasn’t had his fingers in the parish till?’
Matt laughed mirthlessly. ‘Probably has, for all I know. Nobody would question what he was about. He’s devoted to the village and knows everyone’s business. He cross-questions every newcomer relentlessly, really puts them under the microscope, but no one seems to know much about him. He lives with his wife, a mousy little thing, at the top end of the village opposite the fields that Bookwood Developments want to build on.’
‘Yeah, that would really spoil his view,’ commented Tom. ‘He’d be keen as mustard to stop the development.’
‘He would,’ agreed Matt. ‘But if someone were to let slip his sexual proclivities, perhaps at Allsthwaite Church, where he is a regular worshipper, or to one of the many village societies he belongs to or, best of all, to his poor wife, I think his credibility as a campaign leader might be somewhat tarnished. In fact, the press would have a field day.’
‘I’m agog.’ Tom lazed back against the beer-stained seat. ‘Tell me more.’
Matt looked around to make sure they were not being overheard. ‘S and M,’ he said quietly. ‘Every Friday afternoon with “Lady Lucille”, a long-legged brunette in a basque and stilettos. His wife thinks he’s going to see his aged mother in a nursing home in Leeds. He does go there but only shows his face for half an hour and then pushes off to see this Lucille.’
‘Taking a bit of a risk, isn’t he?’ Tom asked. ‘How does he account for his awayday to his wife?’
‘From what I can gather, she never asks. Seems to be glad to see the back of him for the afternoon. She gets to catch up on all her favourite soaps on the TV and he gets to catch up with Lady Lucille. Everyone’s happy.’
‘Any snaps?’
‘When did I let you down?’ Matt grinned and reached into his jacket pocket. He passed an envelope to Tom. ‘She’s dynamite. Can’t say I fancy an afternoon with her but, as they say, don’t knock it till you try it. Rubber suit, whips, chains, the lot. Old Ma Copeland could never compete with that.’
Tom tucked the envelope safely away in his coat to study later. ‘Would she want to, even if she knew?’
‘Nah,’ said Matt. ‘She’s got her telly and a load of cats. I should think Lady Lucille’s welcome to him. Even so, his wife wouldn’t want it to get about the village.’
Tom finished his beer and stood up. ‘You’ve done very well, Matt, as always. I’ll let Bookwood know and handle things from here.’ He clapped Matt on the shoulder. ‘Start buying your suntan oil. You’ll be booking that cruise soon.’
Driving back down the A19, Tom thought about the information Matt had supplied. He shook his head in the dark. He should not be surprised at what Matt had turned up. Villages always harboured more interesting characters than the towns, and frequently with colourful pasts, but this time Matt had surpassed himself. The planning application would be in the bag as soon as it was submitted.
Once home, he examined the photographs Matt had supplied and whistled softly to himself. Matt had managed to get clear images of Joshua Copeland spread-eagled on a bed, hands and feet tied firmly with ropes and Lady Lucille wielding her whips upon him. As Matt had said, they were dynamite.
He put them in his safe and texted Grey Eyes in London:
The hooks are baited. Fish to be reeled in soon.