Trouble on the Heath: A Comedy of Russian Gangsters, Town Planners and a Dog Called Nigel

Chapter Seven

Trevor Williams smelt trouble. His senses were finely tuned to trouble. In fact, if the Olympic Games held a ‘Smelling Trouble over 500 metres’ event, Trevor would have been a gold medallist.

It started at the back of his neck and worked its way up and over his scalp in a matter of seconds. Then it would lunge down into his tummy and produce a knot of indigestion. It would then radiate outwards towards his hands and feet, until eventually he would feel his eyes turn, as they were doing now, to the source of the ‘Trouble’.

It was a mild-looking young man in a brown corduroy jacket and grey flannels. He was speaking to Cynthia, who looked after the filing.

Cynthia was following the Number One Golden Rule of the Planning Department, which was to pretend innocence. She was looking at her watch, which meant she would be telling the young man that the person he wanted to see was out of the office and wouldn’t be back for some hours.

If this failed, she would move on to Rule Number Two, which would be to appeal to the visitor’s sudden desire to get out of the Planning Department as soon as possible. She would do this by saying that if he left his phone number, the person he was looking for could phone him back in the comfort of his own home, when he would be sitting down with a nice glass of Chablis.

Yes! The young man was writing something down on a piece of paper that would be thrown away as soon as he left the office.

But something had gone wrong! The young man had stopped writing.

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.