The Borough

CHAPTER ONE

The road.

Twisting and turning with sharp bends and short straights, hugging the coastal cliffs between Sharmouth and Greycliffe.

Quiet now.

In summer, or even in the light of a clear winter's day, it would have been busy with tourists and sightseers enjoying the impressive open views along the coast. But not at eight o'clock on a cold, dark December evening. In the past there had been no choice, but for five years there had been an alternative inland route that took ten minutes off the journey, leaving the coastal route for access and sightseeing

Evening traffic was mostly reduced to people who lived in the few isolated houses tucked in along the way or on the western fringe of Greycliffe. Later on it would be lovers seeking out the remoteness of the scenic car park.

Perhaps a car or two every twenty minutes or so.

Nigel Stewart, tie loosened at the neck, but still in his grey business suit at the end of a long working day, was alone on the road, with no vehicles in sight ahead or behind. The inland bypass would have been the quickest way home for him too, but he preferred the emptiness and challenge of driving quickly along a hazardous route. The last two evenings had been frustrating, chance encounters with slower traffic taking away his fun. It was later today, though, so most of the residents would be home for the evening by now.

His foot went hard down on the accelerator as he came out of the first right-hand hairpin bend and the short rising curve lay ahead of him. A crisp stab at the clutch and the engine note dropped as he slipped smoothly into third gear. Without any on-coming traffic he could stray over the centre white lines to straighten out the bends, and not need to change down for the series of testing left and right handers that followed. He pushed himself back into his seat to counteract the cornering forces, as one moment the near-side wing mirror caught on protruding parts of the landward side hedge, then a moment later he was pulled the other way as the tyres squealed for grip to keep the car on course. The tight left hander came up fast. Stewart switched his right foot to the brake, pushing hard with his toes whilst his heel dabbed at the accelerator to match the engine revs for a racing gear change down into second. The back end broke away slightly and he twitched the steering wheel to correct it, not quite succeeding in keeping on his own side of the road. Just as well nothing was coming the other way, but what was the point in owning a GTi if you couldn't enjoy it sometimes?

As the road unwound into a fast open curve, he changed up through the gears, not pushing quite so hard after the unexpected slipperiness on the last bend. There might be a touch of ice forming on the surface, with the evening being so cold. It had taken getting on for half the trip home for the heater to make much headway, but now that the iciness inside the car was receding it was almost possible to imagine that he was driving along the Californian coastal highway that he'd seen on films. A brief break from the drab reality of being a Borough Council accountant, before getting home to a standard family in a standard semi-detached house. It wouldn't last forever, though, there was a way out now.

The bend finally led into the straight. This was the one section where it was possible to overtake safely and slip by dawdling tourists in the busier summer months. No need for that tonight though. The full beam of his headlights lit up almost the complete length of the straight, with just the shadow of a small animal running across the road in the distance.

Sod it, he thought, as he saw the tail-lights of a vehicle pulling out of the scenic view car park at the far end of the straight. No more fun on this trip home. It looked like a truck of some sort, which would mean a slow procession through the bends with no chance of overtaking before he was almost at his turn-off. A pity, because the last set of bends needed quick gear changes and a steady nerve to drive through at speed, with the added tension of knowing that at this point along the route there was an almost sheer drop of two hundred feet on the seaward side to reward a lapse of concentration. Half way along the straight he lifted his foot off the accelerator and watched the speedometer needle drift downwards. He thought for a moment about pulling into the car park and letting the truck go clear, but Councillor Cavendish had kept him talking far longer than expected and it was late already. There would always be another day.

As he came level with the entrance to the car park, he saw the dark shadow of another large vehicle in there, maybe a cattle truck, tucked in tight against the overhanging trees. Strange, that. It was very rare to see commercial vehicles on the coast route, let alone two on a December evening. Round the first bend he soon came up behind the first vehicle, big and lumbering, like a removal van or similar, but so filthy it was impossible to make out the company logo, let alone read the number plate if he'd wanted to. Stewart leaned across and turned on the radio, settling down to the slower pace of the truck.

Two bends farther on he caught the flash of headlights from behind in his rear-view mirror and within a minute another vehicle had caught up. It must have been the other truck from the car park, its lights high up and wide set. Stewart twisted the mirror to relieve his eyes from the following glare. Eyes grown tired from hours spent staring at a computer screen in the rush to finish off next year's budget well before Christmas.

The truck in front was going even slower now, forcing Stewart to change down to bottom gear when his engine started snatching. Three vehicles with only a few feet between them as they started into the final tight left hand bend. The rear truck was so close now that the roar of its engine was drowning out the radio. Stewart gripped the wheel, suddenly feeling vulnerable.

It only lasted a few seconds. He was jogged by a gentle bump and felt his car being shoved from behind. He tried to turn and follow the first truck, which was now pulling away, but it was too late. He pushed his foot hard down on the brake, but the weight and power of the truck were more than his car tyres could resist. The steering wheel had no effect and the screeching rubber added volume to the noise of the powerful engine behind. His arms locked straight as he braced himself for the impact with the safety barrier.

The barrier was no match for the brute force of the truck, crumpling up the front of the car, but then splitting and tearing free from the ground. For a moment, Nigel Stewart's car hung suspended in mid air, almost pausing like that brief moment of weightlessness at the top of a roller-coaster. Then as his hand reached ineffectively for the door handle the car started down, rolling over and over in the air, the driver only surviving a lethal battering because of the tight grip of his seat belt. The first impact was the only one that mattered to Stewart. The car was upside down when it landed on a jagged boulder that punched through the roof into Stewart's head. Then it went on, bouncing off the lower slopes to a final resting place, half submerged on the rocky fringes of the English Channel.

Back on the road, two large trucks headed off towards Greycliffe, the distance between them gradually lengthening.

CHAPTER TWO

Dave Winner lay back in the chair, wishing he was somewhere else. It had been a rotten way to end the dinner party the night before, smashing a tooth on a pip left in the fruit salad. Embarrassing for the hostess as well, having one of her guests decamp for the bathroom in agony. It was only the persistent ache and the jagged edge tearing at his tongue that had driven him to one of his least favourite places for starting the day.

Shall I numb it up for you? the dentist asked, his voice curiously distorted by his face mask.

Yes please, I'm not keen on pain.

You'd better put these goggles on. I don't want to spray anaesthetic or anything else into your eyes.

Winner slipped the goggles on. Going to the dentist was getting to be an increasingly surreal experience. In years gone by the dentist had been visible, but now all but his forehead was hidden behind a face mask and visor, his hands concealed by rubber surgeons' gloves. A year or two ago there had been the experiments with music to distract from pain, but at least these days it wasn't as painful as it used to be. Kids like his son Toby didn't seem to be frightened of the dentist at all. Winner tried to avoid going if possible, easier now that his wife was gone and there was no one nagging him to make an appointment.

I'll just put this gel on where I have to inject.

These days you even got a running commentary. The dentist fished out the cotton wool pad, leaving a disgusting taste of rubber and anaesthetic in Winner's mouth. Winner closed his eyes to avoid seeing the hypodermic syringe. The latest scare was that dentists didn't effectively sterilise their equipment between patients, suggesting a risk of nasty diseases like hepatitis or worse still aids. The thought made Winner glad that he had been slotted in before the first regular appointment of the day. Surely the equipment would be thoroughly sterilised overnight?

The dental nurse started vacuuming up saliva as the dentist flushed Winner's mouth clean. There was a numbness spreading through his jaw now, taking away the nagging pain. The dentist busied himself sorting out his equipment while the anaesthetic took effect, then picked up his drill.

Nasty business on the coast road last night. One of your people, I think they said.

Typical dentist. Wait until they have your tongue numb and your mouth full of equipment, then start a conversation.

Urgh, replied Winner, raising his eyebrows behind the goggles in a gesture of incomprehension.

Hadn't you heard?

Winner wiggled his head slightly from side to side.

Perhaps I shouldn't have mentioned it, the dentist said, his brow furrowed in concentration as he carved away at the decayed tooth, but it was on the news. Didn't give a name though. Just said it was someone who worked for the Council.

Winner made a strangled questioning noise. What was the man talking about?

Oh, yes. A car went straight off the road through the safety barrier and crashed down the cliff. They say he must have been driving like a lunatic to have been going fast enough to break through the barrier. Dead, of course.

Winner raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement. It was impossible to ask any questions. Soon he had a mouth full of hands fitting some sort of metal frame round the remains of his tooth. He tried to think who it might have been, but a lot of people worked for the Council and any one of them might have a reason for travelling on the coast road.

Apparently, the dentist continued, they've had to close the road this morning to recover the wreckage. Make it a good size batch, Yvonne, Mr Winner's got quite a substantial cavity here. You're quite fortunate. There's enough tooth left to make a reasonable repair. It's quite a filling, though. You'll have to avoid biting on it today.

Winner closed his eyes again as the amalgam was forced into the cavity. His head was starting to throb from being tipped back at an awkward angle. He just hoped the dead driver wasn't in his department. The draft budget was due to be finalised by the end of the week and it was his job as Chief Accountant to make sure it was all ready on time. It was going to be hard enough meeting the deadline without an additional crisis. The figures were already looking awful, which would almost certainly mean late nights in the office up to Christmas as they trawled through the budget to find ways of cutting back.

The dentist was busy using a small vibrating ram to pack in the amalgam. Winner's mind drifted off to his own problems. The split with his wife hadn't been too acrimonious, just the inevitable result of a long drift apart - and he still got to see ten year old Toby every week. It was the money that was irritating. The flat had been cheap, but with a mortgage and maintenance there wasn't much left over. Local government salaries were a joke. An important job like Chief Accountant, and all he got was twenty six thousand a year. Roll on privatisation, just as long as he could still get a job. He'd have to be careful, though. At forty four he couldn't afford a career break. He didn't feel old, or look it, but there was a lot of age discrimination in the employment market.

They were cleaning up now, picking out bits of stray amalgam and flushing away the detritus from his mouth. The dentist swivelled the chair back upright and Winner handed back the goggles.

The tooth shouldn't give any trouble. It was an old filling that had been loosened by some further decay. No toffees or crusty bread today.

Thanks for fitting me in at such short notice, Winner said, his numb jaw making him sound a bit drunk.

The tongue should come back to life in an hour or so, the dentist told him, as he showed him out of the surgery door.

Winner paid the receptionist by cheque, wondering, as he scrawled an unusually shaky signature on the bottom, how many cheques were returned to dentists because of suspicious signatures. Maybe none. He doubted if banks looked at them at all now.

One of the perks of being Chief Accountant was a designated parking place in the small car park tucked in behind the rambling Victorian heap that was known as the Town Hall. Other staff had to leave their cars scattered around the back streets of Sharmouth, or pay a stiff annual fee for one of the two multi-storey car parks nearby. Winner eased his Ford Escort into his space, a task made difficult by the refuse containers which had been left sticking out of their bay again. The private contractors were always in such a hurry. It didn't seem to matter to the councillors that they only did three-quarters of the job, just so long as there was a cash saving to show the voters. Winner locked up his car, then used his pass key to get in through the back door of the Town Hall. It was only a short way through to his office, which was accessed from the main corridor, but had a second full length glass door into the main accounting office, through which he could keep an eye on the staff.

As Winner entered, the glazed door was open and he caught a rear view of Chief Auditor Barry Freeman talking to the accountancy staff. He could see Christine Tucker, the costing clerk, with tears running down her face. Freeman heard the door to Winner's office close and glanced around.

......anyway, we'll let you know what's going to happen and any arrangements, Freeman told them. I don't know what to say, really. I must talk to Dave now that he's arrived.

Freeman turned and stepped in through the glazed door, pulling it closed behind him.

Where the hell have you been? he asked Winner.

Dental emergency. What's happened? Winner hung up his coat, not wanting to hear the answer.

Nigel Stewart went and killed himself on the coast road last night.

Winner flopped down into his chair. With so many staff working for the Council he hadn't thought for a moment about it being one of his own team. Nigel Stewart. Not someone he particularly liked, or even knew very well on a personal level, but still an awful shock.

You've told my staff?

I had to. Nobody knew where you were or how long you'd be. There were all sorts of rumours flying around as soon as everyone got in this morning. Linda Price called all the section heads in and told us to let the staff know.

Thanks, Barry. The dentist told me about the accident, but he didn't know who it was. Is there any other information?

Not much to tell. Are you all right? You look very pale. I'll get someone to get you a coffee.

Freeman put his head round the door and called out to one of the clerks.

The anaesthetic isn't helping, Winner said, rubbing at the side of his face. Bit of a shocker, isn't it. What time did it happen?

Some time in the evening. He phoned his wife about half past seven and said he'd be leaving soon, but he never turned up. The wreckage wasn't found until about three in the morning.

Winner turned and looked blankly out of the window. An unexciting view of the back of some shops, relieved only by a single mature ash tree, its branches silhouetted bare against the pale grey sky.

I think he's got two kids as well, he said, struggling to remember how old they were. Distressing as the accident was, he couldn't stop his mind from turning to the effect of Stewart's death on the work that had to be done. This could screw up the whole budget timetable. Stewart was the systems expert who looked after the administrative accounts and kept accounts reconciled and balanced. He was one of the few people who really understood how the various computer programs meshed together. It could create serious problems, especially at this time of year with budgets taking up so much time.

Freeman looked at his watch. I've got a meeting in five minutes.

Should I go and see her?

Who? Mrs Stewart? I shouldn't think so. Pat Johnson's driving over to explain about pension and benefits, that sort of thing.

It would be awkward. I've never met her before. There are some things that will have to be sorted out in this office.

Freeman gave a sort of half smile as he stepped out into the corridor.

We'll just have to hold a meeting about it, won't we?

The door closed and Winner looked out through the glazed door. The staff all looked miserable, hardly surprising. The clock on the wall said nine forty.

What a bloody marvellous start to the day.

CHAPTER THREE

By late morning, after several cups of coffee and three soluble aspirin, Winner was beginning to feel more normal. The atmosphere in the general office was far from normal, the regular chatter and activity reduced to a fraction of their usual level. In the corridors, small groups of people stopped to find out if anyone else had any more information. A rumour went around that Stewart had been drinking, later that it was suicide, but hard facts were few and far between.

At lunch time Winner walked out of the office and cut down through the back streets to the quayside. It was a brisk ten minute walk and few of the Council staff made it that far in their lunch breaks, preferring the closer town centre shops and cafes. He went into Burger King, figuring that the pappy burger and fries would be easy on the delicate tooth. There were only half a dozen people in the place, but Winner took his tray upstairs to get a decent view. In the summer you were lucky if you could get a seat at all, but today he was the only customer on the upper floor. He sat looking out over the estuary, with its neat rows of dinghies and cabin cruisers tied up alongside the marina walkways. He ate slowly and deliberately, trying to chew on the unrepaired side of his mouth. He supposed there must be worse places to be an accountant. The pleasant scenery and mild climate compensated in part for the dull tedium of the job.

Across the water, the up-market houses of River Heights nestled among the trees that rose up from the riverside. Winner tried to pick out the one that belonged to Maurice Westerman, the Borough Treasurer, but it was hard to be certain as he'd only been to Westerman's house once, and that time he'd approached from the inland side of the property. A nice house, judging by the hallway and the glimpses of other rooms seen through the open doors. He had waited there for Westerman to come through from his study to receive his copy of the newly printed budget book. Winner had felt out of place, like a delivery boy. Hard to see now how he was ever going to afford a place in River Heights.

Winner pulled the top off his hot chocolate and took a sip. It seemed indecent to be thinking it, but there was no way he could avoid doing something about the sudden vacancy in his office straight away. It would have been more dignified to leave it until after the funeral, whenever that might be, but the pressure of work was just too great.

Only three or four years ago it would have been much easier to cope. There were more staff then and less pressure. All this separate accounting for the semi-privatised divisions caused extra work and a series of budget crises had meant staff cutbacks and intermittent bans on vacancy filling. That was bad enough, but now everything was needed in such detail. Once the costs of departments like the Treasury were allocated to services on a rough and ready guesswork basis. Now they had to be costed to the last pound to show that in-house bids for work were comparable to outside company tenders. Office staff had to spend time filling in time sheets at a time when they had a whole lot of other extra work. It was getting impossible to finish off any jobs with all the loose ends tied up. Discrepancies that were once investigated were just written off now. The place must be wide open to fraud. That was Barry Freeman's problem of course, but he only had half as many audit staff as three years ago.

Winner glanced at his watch and drained the last of the hot chocolate from the plastic cup. Just as well to take a break now. It could be well into the evening before he could go home. Out on the quayside he buttoned up his coat against the cold damp breeze that was blowing in from the estuary and walked along by the river to the bottom of the High Street. On the way back to the Town Hall he went into a baker's shop and bought some filled rolls to see him through the evening.

There were four of them in the Chief Accountant's office that afternoon, besides Winner. Mary Hatton, who dealt with loans, Planning Committee and capital finance. She had worked very closely with Nigel Stewart and probably knew more about his work than any of the others. Jack Evans, who looked after the Resources Committee. Pauline Tipper, the housing accountant and Peter Vaughan, Recreation and odds and ends. All in their thirties and all reasonably good at their jobs, which was as much as you could expect in a line of work that people took up because they couldn't think of anything better to do. Grey suits for the men, dark skirts and thin pullovers for the women. Dull and colourless like local government itself. They'd be extinct soon if government policies continued to their logical conclusion.

Winner spoke first. Awful business, this. I would have liked to have left talking about Nigel's work until..... He was about to say until the body had gone cold, but at the last moment it struck him that might be rather tasteless. .....er, until a respectful amount of time had passed. It can't really wait, though.

There were understanding nods from the others sat round the table.

Nigel finished his allocations off late yesterday afternoon, Mary Hatton said. I found a print-out that he must have done after I went home. It seems to tie up with his department budget totals.

Winner glanced across at her. That's a relief. It might take a few days for anyone else to get the hang of his computer spreadsheets. They're full of complicated macros, from what I've seen.

Who is this anyone else? Evans asked. I haven't got time to take over any of Nigel's work at this time of year.

Neither have I, Pauline Tipper told him. This Tenants' Choice business is blowing up into a full scale war.

Suddenly irritated by the bickering, Winner turned to look out at the ash tree. A seagull was sitting incongruously on a lower branch. Wouldn't it be nice to be a seagull? Look, I'm not too thrilled about all this, either. We'll just have to make the best of it. Westerman isn't back in the office until Monday and I'll need his backing to get Nigel's post filled. With Christmas coming up fast it would be impossible to get someone in post before the middle of February at the earliest.

To be honest, said Vaughan, I'm not really sure what Nigel did. Don't misunderstand me. I'm sure he was very busy.

Actually, you're right, Peter, said Winner, swivelling back to face him. I've got a list of his duties, but that's more theory than practice. I'll have to have a look at his time-sheets and try and work it out. I'll see if I can get round to looking through his in-tray and other stuff later today.

What about getting Sally Travis in from Audit? Evans asked. She's supposed to be good on the systems and she worked in here not too long ago.

The ideal solution. She would probably only need a few days to take over Nigel's work. Not much chance of Barry Freeman letting her go, though. The audit office was already slimmed down beyond the bones.

For a while they talked about the various routine tasks that Stewart had dealt with, but there was a marked reluctance on the part of any of the staff to volunteer for extra work.

How are the rest of the budgets coming on? Winner asked, moving on to a more positive subject.

If Mary can give out Nigel's figures, we should be able to reach a total by Friday, Evans told him, but it's going to be way too high.

There's not really a lot more we can do at the moment, said Winner. You all make sure the draft budget's complete by Friday and I'll see what I can do about Nigel's work. Get someone to bring me in a cup of coffee, will you.

Winner watched them going back to their desks, then started looking through the day's post. Not a great deal today. Just the usual selection of brokers' notes confirming loan transactions and a couple of grant applications for financial comment, some advertising bumph and details of the sale of a council house to the tenant. More Government regulations about transferring housing stock to the private sector. He'd better read that before passing it on to Pauline Tipper. The afternoon melted away as Winner dealt with the paperwork and then tapped away at his computer keyboard, reviewing the input from Stewart's time-sheets.

Peter Vaughan joined Winner in his office just after four. The window had turned black, the daylight already gone. They spoke about the next day's Recreation Committee that Winner would have to attend in place of the vacationing Treasurer. Vaughan ran through the items on the agenda, trying to predict the questions that councillors might ask. By the time they were nearing the end of the list, some of the staff in the main office were packing up for the day. Winner noticed Vaughan glance at his watch.

There's not much more here. You can push off if you want to, Winner told him.

"I shall if you don't mind. It's the first turkey