Trevor ducked down behind the filing cabinet. Damn! The young man had spotted him.
“I think your Head of Planning may have returned without you noticing,” Malcolm said politely to the girl. “I’d like to speak to him at once.”
Cynthia turned round to look at the Head of Planning’s Office. She couldn’t see Trevor.
“No, I don’t think he has,” she said.
“I just saw him duck behind the filing cabinet,” said Malcolm pleasantly.
Malcolm actually enjoyed coming to the Planning Department. It was like reading a historical text. You had to distinguish between fact and fiction. When Julius Caesar tells us, in his Gallic Wars, that elks have no knees and so cannot get up if they fall over, we know it is fiction. It was exactly the same when Malcolm was told that the Head of Planning was not there, and yet he could see Trevor peering over a filing cabinet.
Trevor cursed himself. He had been meaning to get rid of the sign on the door that read ‘Head of Planning’. He gave a shrug of resignation and beckoned Malcolm into his office.
“It’s about this Planning Application for the demolition of numbers 26 and 27 Highgrove Park,” said the young man.
“And who might you be?” asked Trevor. It was always a good idea to ask this question, since it implied that they had no business to be making the lives of honest, hard-working civil servants more difficult than they already were.
“I’m Malcolm Thomas,” said Malcolm. “I’m Chairman of the Highgrove Park Residents’ Association. We want to know who is lodging the Planning Application. It says on the application ‘Berners Ltd’. We’ve heard rumours that some Russian is behind it. Is that right?”
“Well, Mr Thomas.” Trevor was sure of his ground here. “We know no more than you. If we receive an application from a company that’s all we know too. You’d need to go to Companies House to find out who owns the company. They don’t have to tell us.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Malcolm. “It’s just that one of the members of the Residents’ Association has received a threatening message in the post.”
Trevor gave Malcolm a sideways glance. “Really?” he said. “Are you sure it’s to do with the planning application?”
“Well, not completely,” said Malcolm, “but it’s all we can think of. The letter had a Russian stamp, so…”
Trevor shrugged. It was a shrug that suggested a desire to achieve great things for the public good, but a complete helplessness to do so. It was a shrug that conveyed friendly cooperation and the desire to please, but, at the same time, told of the crushing burdens of public service.
Malcolm understood all this, and turned to go. But then he stopped and asked, “By the way, what do you think of the proposed development?”
“Oh! I can’t take a view. That’s up to the Planning Committee,” smiled Trevor, relieved at the turn the conversation was taking. He’d be rid of this person in a few minutes and then the office could get on with the real business of tea and biscuits.
“I just wondered whether you have a personal view,” replied Malcolm.
“I’m not allowed to,” said Trevor enthusiastically. And it was true. He had absolutely no interest in whether the proposed development was in keeping with the other houses in Highgrove Park, or whether it would ruin the ponds on the Heath, or destroy the wildlife in the area. He would never be able to afford to live in such a desirable place, so why should he care? He had to remain neutral.
Malcolm sighed. “Well, thanks for all your help,” he said, and made for the door.
That was too easy, thought Trevor. I need to mix it up a bit more.
So just as Malcolm reached the door Trevor called out, “Oh, Mr Thomas! Strictly speaking I shouldn’t be telling you this, but yes, I think it is a Russian company.”
Malcolm nodded his thanks, and left feeling how very helpful the new Head of Planning was. He wasn’t to know that Trevor Williams had a secret reason for being so helpful.
Chapter Eight
Nigel was the first there. He was closely followed by the Great Dane with only one eye called Faustus, then the Doberman called Midge. A lot of peeing went on, followed by a lot of sniffing. By the time the owners had caught up with their dogs, the dogs were busy exploring the fascinating world of bottoms. Any bottom would do, whether it was the bottom of another dog or the bottom of a hedge, fence or lamp post.
Malcolm looked at his watch. It was
10.25 a.m. “Well, it’s not quite the mass turn-out I’d hoped for,” he said.
“Actually I can’t stay,” said Major Riddington. “I was just walking the dog. Faustus! Here boy! Can’t stop. Sorry.” And he continued on his way.
Malcolm turned to Midge’s owner, whose name he could never remember, although he’d asked her several times. “I can’t see the paper running a photo with a caption ‘Angry Residents Protest’ with just the two of us.”
“Oh.” What’s Her Name? sounded crestfallen. “Do you think anyone else will turn up?”
“I told the photographer to be here at
10.30. It’s 10.26 now.”
“Wait for me!” Patrick Simpson, the lawyer, came running up. “Has it all happened? Where are the others?”
“I think we are ‘the others’,” said Malcolm. “Not exactly a record turn-out.”
“We’ll just have to space ourselves out,” said Patrick.
“Won’t that look worse?” asked Midge’s owner.
“There’s the photographer!” exclaimed Malcolm. “Oh, no it isn’t,” he added under his breath. “It’s Hitler.”
“Is it really?” asked Midge’s owner excitedly. She was secretly a fan of Nazi regalia.
“Mr Kendrick!” said Malcolm. “I’m glad you were able to make it. As you see we’re short on numbers.”
Mr Kendrick looked at them with a blank expression.
“Short on numbers for what?” he asked.
“For the mass demonstration against the development here opposite your house!” said Malcolm. He was already irritated by Mr Kendrick’s presence, although he knew he shouldn’t be. He had been hoping to hide Mr Kendrick behind some of the other residents. He imagined having a Hitler look-alike amongst the protesters might not win them much sympathy amongst the readers of the local paper.
“Mass demonstration?” muttered Mr Kendrick blankly.
“We voted for it at the last Residents’ Association meeting,” said Malcolm.
“Did we?” asked Midge’s owner excitedly.
“Yes of course we did!” Malcolm could feel himself getting ruffled.
“I didn’t vote for a mass demonstration,” said Mr Kendrick.
“But… but… Anyway you’re here.” Malcolm was trying to control himself. “That’s what matters.”
“I was just going inside,” said Mr Kendrick.
“But please stay!” put in Patrick Simpson. “As you can see we need everyone we can get.”
“But what’s in it for me?” asked Mr Kendrick.
“You live opposite the proposed development!” exploded Malcolm. “You’re the one most affected by it!”
“Look! Here’s the photographer!” said Patrick.
A friendly girl in a brown bomber jacket ambled up to the group. She had a fancy SLR camera hanging from her neck.
“Hi!” she said.
“Hello, I’m Malcolm Thomas. I’m the Chairman of the Residents’ Association,” said Malcolm. “I’m sorry there aren’t more of us.”
“That’s OK,” replied the girl. “My name’s Martha. I’m from New Zealand.”
“I’ve got an aunt in New Zealand!” exclaimed Midge’s owner. “Her name’s Dancey Willis. I’m Isobel Soper.”
“Isobel! Of course!” Malcolm kicked himself.
“I know Dancey Willis!” smiled Martha from New Zealand.