Free Troubled Waters by Trevor Burton Page A

consider abandoning my prize mint-condition Saab 900, but decide I have to find another car park. Buying my ticket, I complain to the clerk about the car park.
    ‘You’re not the first one today, sir. I don’t know what’s going on, she says in a patronising tone. It makes me angry, but I’m late now.
    Still fuming, I sprint down the steps and along the platform. I jump onto the train, the sound of the whistle in my ears, with not a whisker to spare. My effort over, I reflect on the night before and my mental note to upscale my fitness regime. As I take my seat, an attractive middle-aged lady smiles and quips, ‘Nice legs!’ It makes me smile.
    ‘Thank you,’ I reply. I don’t mention my back, but I feel it nonetheless, making a mental note to ring the physio.
    I thought I might catch up with Amelia on the platform or walking from the station, but she is already in the office, having caught an earlier train that was running late. This turns out to be fortunate, because she is running around replying to overnight e-mail enquiries and following up tentative phone calls from the last week. Two buses always come at once, so they say. This rush of correspondence is unusual for us. There are four emails, three of which are from farmers who appear to be in the same plight as Jamie Cropper – that is, they are in the process of negotiating prospecting contracts with fracking organisations. All three are dairy farmers under the hammer financially, but only one currently has a problem with protesters. Word has obviously spread on the grapevine that Enodo is helping Jamie. The fourth email is not from a dairy farmer but from someone who wants to know how to go about building a safari park.
    Amelia comes in with coffee to discuss the potential opportunities. ‘You look a bit dishevelled,’ she observes, and laughs when I explain my earlier dash for the train. ‘These enquiries… how do you want to proceed?’
    ‘The dairy farmers first. Can you prepare a quote similar to the one we did for Jamie?’
    ‘And the lions of Cheshire?’ she jokes.
    I laugh. ‘It does sound like a wind-up,’ I agree. ‘File it in the too-hard basket for now. It could be Gerry, my accountant, messing about; you know he thinks he should really have been a stand-up comic, only he doesn’t realise it’s only his bills that are a laugh.’
    Fun time over, we get down to serious business. We decide that we will go into town early and have a wander around Piccadilly Tower complex before lunch to get more of a feel of the place, ahead of my meeting at FrackUK, with Jamie on Wednesday.
    ‘What about the murdered girl? Do we steer clear of any conversation on that?’ Amelia asks.
    I pause before answering. ‘My initial thoughts are, yes, we steer very clear. It is not part of our remit, but it is intrinsically part of Sophia’s situation because of the fraud aspect, and Bill Lambert has not confirmed his opinion of the motive.’
    The phone rings, and Amelia answers. ‘It must be telepathy,’ she whispers . ‘ It’s him !’ she mouths, passing over the phone.
    ‘Hi, good morning,’ I greet him in surprise.
    ‘Apologies for being a bit short last night. I had to rush to the doctor’s; the wife had rung me about a call from the nurse, saying my cholesterol was seven-point-something, going through the roof. I think she was dusting off the life insurance policy. Turned out the nurse, dozy bugger, had read the total cholesterol level, good and bad. When I got there she explained that when they deduct the good level and bring it to a net figure, I’m perfectly fine. I was too relieved to shout at her.’
    ‘That is a relief,’ I offer, now understanding knowing why he’d been so grumpy, but why was he really calling?
    ‘I’ve been thinking. Well, it was Evans actually… in your dealings with Sophia Peroni, you might be party to information that could be of use to us.’
    ‘That could well be,’ I confirm.
    ‘I don’t think it would