Free Troubled Waters by Trevor Burton Page B

be wise to muscle in, like, but perhaps we could be in the area and call in at the Lowry shortly after your lunch. At, say, three o’clock.’
    Amelia, listening to the conversation, throws her head back and smirks conspiratorially.
    ‘No problem,’ I acknowledge, smiling back at Amelia. ‘See you later.’
    ‘How polite people can be when they want to! Is he up something?
    ‘Undoubtedly. But it won’t do any harm and he could help us too.’
    It’s now 10:45am. ‘What time are we due for lunch?’ I ask Amelia.
    ‘One o’clock,’ she answers. ‘We had better be going if we are going to have a wander around.’
    ‘Yes, especially if it’s a stopping train. I wonder if the metro link will ever be continued into the centre of Stockport.’
    Amelia frowns. ‘There’s flying pigs for you, but who knows.’
    It is indeed a stopping train, and we are soon bored stiff by the constant inane chatter of a marketing executive on his iPhone. Slowing down into Piccadilly station at platform fourteen, the furthest away from the exit, the announcer tells passengers for Manchester to disembark as the train will continue onwards to Preston without going into the station proper.
    ‘Bloody hell! Might have known, just because we’re in a hurry,’ Amelia curses.
    ‘Best foot forward,’ I reply, striding out towards the steel bridge giving access to other platforms and the exit.
    We debate whether to take the metro, but as there is no departure for fifteen minutes and not wanting to wait, we consider taking the free bus.
    ‘Let’s walk,’ I decide. Walking will allow us to traverse Piccadilly Gardens and go through the Plaza, the venue of tomorrow’s meeting with Jamie and FrackUK. I scan around as we approach, noting the number of towers in the complex, one being a hotel.
    We exit the plaza and turn right, crossing Mosley Street and making our way through the old financial district. We make a turn to the right and northwards along Deansgate.
    ‘Is this not the wrong way?’ Amelia asks. ‘It’s more direct through Spinningfields, surely?’
    ‘You’re correct,’ I confirm, ‘it’s not the most direct way but going through Spinningfields would take us over the new bridge to the rear of the Lowry Hotel. I want to go along Deansgate and then turn left over Blackfriars Bridge to Chapel Street, Salford. We will then approach the Hotel from the front entrance as the girls would have done on that Friday evening.’
    ‘Ah! Now I see the light,’ she says, mockingly.
    As we walk over Blackfriars Bridge and look left, the Irwell makes its way downstream. From here we can see the new bridge crossing over from Spinningfields, and where it descends onto a piazza at the back of the hotel. The road entrance off Chapel Street is not impressive, but the hotel is much the same as many other high-rise hotel new-build.
    A church clock somewhere close by chimes one o’clock as we enter the foyer. Sophia is waiting.
    ‘Hello! Right on time. We have just arrived ourselves,’ she says, introducing us to Suzy, a chubby, mousey-haired girl – exactly what I’d envisaged from Amelia’s description.
    We follow the two girls into the restaurant and are seated immediately. The waiter asks for our drinks order. I offer alcohol to them, but am not surprised when they opt for soft drinks, given the circumstances.
    ‘Apple juice for me,’ Amelia states.
    ‘Tonic, ice and lime, please,’ I order.
    The drinks arrive quickly, along with all-day menus and lunch-time lighter options. We concentrate on the menus for five minutes, before the two girls order Thai chicken wraps with salad and Amelia and I share a ploughman’s lunch.
    I’m surprised when it is Suzy who speaks first.
    ‘I’m so glad you’re going to help us. It has been going on far too long, and the bubble was bound to burst sooner or later.’
    I try to take a step backward to get a hang on things. ‘Can I ask how long you have both been working for Salford into