J. Gregson - In Vino Veritas

‘We’ve got autumn raspberries as well as strawberries. And I don’t have difficulties with labour. The recession’s made people glad of a job. It’s true it was difficult to get workers, a couple of years ago, but I can pick and choose a bit now.’

‘Really?’ Beaumont let his elaborate surprise slide into a grin. ‘Better not let the Citizen know that, eh, Tom? They’ll be saying you should get rid of these cheap-labour foreigners and employ local labour!’

‘If they do, I’ll know where their information’s come from, won’t I?’

Beaumont made an elaborate show of looking hurt. ‘Oh, it wouldn’t be me, Tom. I’m your friendly neighbour, aren’t I? But there are always plenty of people ready to make trouble for us chaps who provide the work, aren’t there?’

‘These men work hard all day and earn their money. I’ve no complaints about them.’

‘I’ll bet you haven’t. Slave labour without union rates. We’d all like a bit of that!’

‘They’re not slaves and they’re properly paid. It’s none of your business, anyway, Beaumont.’

‘Could be, Tom. Could be. In a roundabout sort of way, of course. I’m still willing to pay a good price for your land, you see. Should be music in your ears, that, with the worst recession for eighty years gathering pace, and the price of agricultural land steadily dropping.’

‘The recession’s helping my business. More people are prepared to pick their own, in a recession.’ Tom felt himself being drawn into an argument he had never intended to have.

‘You’d get a higher price from me than from anyone else, Tom. You’re lucky in that your land would fit neatly into my estate, as I’ve explained to you before. Our vineyards could span the valley nicely, if we took this little tongue of land in, so I’m still prepared to offer you the price I offered last year. That might not be the case for much longer, though.’

Ogden glanced from right to left. Beyond his land, all he could see was Abbey vineyards. His strawberry farm was an obstinate, alien wedge in Beaumont’s empire. ‘My family were farming this land for centuries before Abbey bloody Vineyards was even thought of, Beaumont! And we’ll be here long after you’ve gone.’

Martin allowed himself a leisurely snigger, well aware that his derision was only increasing Ogden’s fury. ‘Oh, I doubt that, Tom, I really do! In fact, I doubt it so much that I’m prepared to say definitely here and now that it won’t happen.’

‘If you get your hands on these fields, it will be over my dead body!’

‘Oh, let’s not get all dramatic about it, Tom. We’re talking as two friendly neighbours. At the moment, I’m prepared to do you a favour and take over your land at an excellent price. I should hate it if that situation had to change.’

‘I’ve said all I’ve got to say. You’re wasting your time here, Beaumont, and I don’t want to see you again!’

‘Spreading alarm among the workers, am I?’ Martin took a leisurely look towards the distant, diligent men in the valley below them, and saw Spot Wheeler watching them curiously. ‘Perhaps some of them are a little more realistic about the situation than their employer.’

‘They’re no more interested in you and your schemes than I am.’ Ogden turned his back ostentatiously upon his unwelcome visitor.

‘I just hope no one causes trouble for you, Tom. Be a shame if they did.’

Ogden whirled back to face him, his weather-beaten face puce now with rage. ‘And what the hell do you mean by that?’

‘I was just thinking this would be a bad time for some mischief-maker to start moaning to the Citizen again about you employing foreign labour when Englishmen are losing their jobs all over the locality. Just as we move towards the height of your season, I mean. It would be a real shame if some person like that encouraged people to boycott your fields, now that you’ve made yourself dependent upon the pick-your-own clientele.’

‘If that happens, I’ll know where to come looking for the culprit.’

‘Oh, it wouldn’t come from me, Tom, anything like that. I’m hurt that you should think it might. I’m a friendly neighbour, remember. But you can’t prevent people talking, and once someone like the Citizen or Radio Gloucester chooses to offer those voices a wider public, it’s surprising how things can build up. Mass hysteria, someone called it to me the other day. Still, we’ll hope it doesn’t come to that, won’t we? It would be such a shame if you had to sell your land on a falling market.’

Tom Ogden wanted to seize him by the throat, to wipe that silly, gloating smile off his face and see panic there instead. He thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers, felt the fists already formed and trembling. ‘Get off my land, Beaumont! Get off before I throw you off!’

‘I’ll go, I’ll go!’ The viniculturist held up his hands in mock horror. ‘I can see you’re not in the mood to listen to reason, Tom. That’s a pity, from your point of view as well as mine.’

Beaumont left his words hanging as a threat in the soft spring sunshine and walked unhurriedly towards his Jaguar. He looked over his neighbour’s land as he went and smiled an anticipatory smile.

It was a quiet Monday morning in Oldford police station. There had been the usual drunken brawls in the centre of Gloucester on Saturday night and the usual half dozen ‘domestics’, involving more personal violence. The usual number of youngsters between thirteen and eighteen had left home without any notice of their plans or destination; they would now become official Missing Persons and be added to that melancholy register of misery.

There was nothing of great interest to CID here, and certainly nothing to excite the attention of Detective Chief Superintendent John Lambert, who was in danger of becoming bored. He had made his usual report to the chief constable. He had written up his comments on CID officers who were due for their career assessments. He had even made out a detailed case to those faceless financial controllers for the maintenance of his overtime budget, which had not been fully used in the last quarter.

He was fully up to date with his paperwork, a situation which the experienced members of his team recognized as a dangerous one: a bored Lambert asked the questions which a busy one thought far too petty for him. He was roaming the CID area and taking an unhealthy interest in detail. He had even approached Detective Inspector Chris Rushton for instructions in the mysteries of computer science, bravely asserting that old police dogs needed to learn new tricks, if they were to keep abreast with the criminals of the modern technological world.

Rushton found that the chief superintendent knew more than he admitted about the possibilities of the computer, which was a little disturbing. Chris was happier with his picture of the chief as a dinosaur in the modern police world, the chief super who was not happy as others were to direct the investigation of serious crime from behind his desk. The senior man who still insisted on getting out to confront those nearest to the offence and make his own judgements upon them. Yet this morning Lambert was filing away useful information from his discussions with Rushton on how best to use HOLMES, the national police file on serious crime and serious criminals.

Lambert also gave Rushton an item for the station news bulletin:

Detective Sergeant Bert Hook has graduated as BA with second class honours (division one) in the Open University degree for which he has been studying in his own time for the last six years. He deserves our heartiest congratulations on this very considerable achievement. Bert has informed his senior officers that it is not his intention to look for accelerated promotion through the graduate recruitment scheme!