CHAPTER FOUR.
Simon Niggard closed the door to the Production Manager’s office, shutting out the mechanical clatter of the Meltcon Bar production line. He smirked with satisfaction as he examined the production figures on the computer. Less than two hours into the shift and he was ahead of target. He drooled over the figures as he scrolled back through previous shifts to check the performance of the competition. The three other Production Managers on the Meltcon line were below target. Counting and comparing brought him such joy. He chuckled when he saw the line had stopped twenty one minutes for repairs during the evening shift. Poor old Adrian Jones; what a sucker! He’d blown what little chance there was of making up his deficit. He hunched forward in eager anticipation as the screen scrolled back to show yesterday’s day shift. Sod it! David Stewart had reduced his deficit. How the devil had he managed that? He looked at the line engineer’s reports for a clue. Bunford had reported overheating in the conveyor drive two hours before the end of their previous shift and asked for permission to stop the line to investigate. Of course it had been refused; the line never stopped on his watch. He never allowed it to slow down, let alone stop. Bunford should know that by now, he was getting difficult, as was that quality control girl, Lydia Baxter. She was continuously pestering him to slow the line down to maintain quality. They were definitely in cahoots those two.
He looked out through the long window which afforded a full view of the production line and sure enough, as if on cue to fuel his paranoia, they walked along the line towards each other, meeting close to the spot where the conveyor had overheated yesterday. Or had it really overheated? How had David Stewart managed to get through a full shift with hot bearings? They could only cool if the line had slowed or stopped and that had obviously not happened. Were those two plotting against him? He watched keenly as Peter Bunford knelt down on one knee and placed a hand on a bearing casing. Lydia Baxter steadied herself with a hand on his shoulder, crouched down beside him and said something in his ear. He turned and said something into hers. It was noisy down there, but why not shout? What was so private? Now Bunford was pointing along the line towards the chocolate enrobing section. What were they up to? He was about to storm out of his office to confront them when Bunford stood up, held both hands down to Lydia Baxter and helped her to her feet. They seemed to hold hands a few seconds longer than was necessary. Was there something going on between those two? He licked his thin lips. Perhaps he’d found a way of getting rid of both of them. It was not against company rules for workers to develop a relationship, but Peter Bunford was married and the company frowned upon that sort of thing. She stood on tip toe to say something in his ear. Or was she giving him a crafty kiss? He would keep a very close eye on them, although to be honest with himself, he could not think why Peter Bunford would be interested in Lydia Baxter. She wore thick spectacles, had mousy hair, no figure to speak of and was barely five feet tall. Hardly a match for his wife who was a fine piece of womanhood, more suited to Bunford’s stature. He was well over six feet and muscular with it. Used to play rugby – kept himself in good shape, but, that was no reason why he shouldn’t start a destructive rumour mill. A whispered comment here – an innuendo there. With a bit of luck and the help of the gossip mongers on the line, a case could be created against them, which senior management would find it difficult to ignore. He would be shot of both of them and it would not be seen as his decision, which was how he would like it.
Peter Bunford watched Lydia as she walked along the line towards the wrapping and packing area, he was really fond of her. Their jobs drew them together but it could never go anywhere. Apart from her being twelve years younger, he was married. Not happily, but married. He could just imagine the uproar if he told Julie he was in love with someone else and would like a divorce. She was not the sort to let go, although there was no love in the marriage and very little sex. Once a month if he was lucky, but even then she wanted it over with as quickly as possible. In the early days, when she was keen to get pregnant, they were at it all the time. It never crossed his mind that she did not like it. She made all the right noises at the right time, but when he tried to resume sex after the birth of Rebecca, she told him, point blank, that it was a mucky dirty business. As a matter of duty, she would let him do it once a month, but for a long time now he had not bothered. What was the point?
When Rebecca came along he had a comfortable job as an engineer with a small components firm, but Julie saw an advert in the job pages of the Hamsworth Bugle, for engineers at Meltcon. He joined them and progressed rapidly to line engineer but was never really happy working for such a large company with all their petty rules and regulations. The self assessment and annual appraisal system was a joke. Anyway, he stuck with it and a positive benefit was the shift pattern, which meant he could share the joy of watching little Becky grow-up. Then Julie decided she wanted to work again. Not at the Bank, where she was well thought of, but as a cleaner. As she built up her cleaning contacts he saw less and less of her, some days they barely said two words to each other as the duty of looking after Becky was handed from one to the other. When Becky started going to school, it was down to him to do the school run, unless he was on the morning shift. Something had to give and inevitably, it was his rugby.
He watched as Lydia reached over the line and picked out a few Meltcon Bars for random analysis. He knew she was worried about misshapen or underweight bars and wanted to check them against a batch from the night shift production. It chimed with his concern that the line could not run efficiently at the speed Simon Niggard was demanding. He had stated as much in his reports, but no one seemed to take any notice, everything was driven by targets and Niggard gloried in it. He was an odious little creep, the production director was due to retire at the end of the year and Niggard was after his job. God help the company if he got it.
The clattering of the line caught his attention. A new sound had weighed into the general cacophony. A component somewhere was protesting at the strain. He walked up the line to investigate.
Laburnham Grove was on the edge of town and formed the base of what the local Estate Agents liked to call the Golden Triangle; the area where the most desirable properties in Hamsworth were located. The large houses on the south side of the Grove were the most sought after, with gardens of two acres or more backing onto designated green belt. The owners of these elite properties had been secure in the belief that no other building could take place beyond their southern boundaries, but, five years ago, confidence in their scope of influence and support from local planning was shattered by Mervyn Turner. Mervyn Turner owned Laburnham House, halfway along the grove. He also owned Tompkins & Turner, a long established and well respected local estate agency, having bought out his partner Jack Tompkins when he wanted to retire. Now, unbeknown to his wealthy neighbours, Mervyn was poised to stab them in the back. The sale of his business to a national chain of estate agents was front page news in the Hamsworth Bugle one week and the following week, tucked away on page 48, under Public Notices and Tenders, a Notice of Application for Planning Permission revealed that he was seeking to demolish Laburnham House to make way for a development of luxury flats. The wealthy residents of Laburnham Grove immediately formed a ‘Preservation Committee’ and rushed along to Laburnham House to confront Mervyn. But Mervyn was on holiday in a Tuscany villa, owned by the managing director of the building company intending to develop the Laburnham House site.