Losing Ground Read Free Page B

undertaking is dependent on. Don’t forget that the final planning footprint isn’t even fixed yet.’
    ‘Go on,’ said Lionel Perry, stealing a surreptitious glance at his wristwatch. He was due on the first tee of Berebury Golf Course in exactly ninety minutes’ time but had no intention of saying so.
    ‘And if we don’t get enabling permission for the land beyond the ditch…’ resumed Hitchin.
    ‘The ha-ha, if you don’t mind,’ put in a man called Randolph Mansfield in a pained voice. He was an architect and had never taken to wearing a collar and tie. He did, though, favour shaggy pale blue denim trousers that he thought made him look younger than he was and really with it. ‘It’s called a ha-ha, not a ditch and it’s designed to make gardens look bigger while keeping the livestock out.’
    Derek Hitchin pointedly ignored him, going on, ‘As I was saying, we must get planning permission for all the land beyond the ditch, outside the village envelope or not. We need it to make the project viable. Every bit of it.’
    ‘The Muster Green, you mean,’ put in the chairman, demonstrating how conversant he was with the matter in hand.
    ‘If we don’t get planning permission for the Muster Green on top of the go-ahead for the rest of the parkland then we won’t be able to do anything with the old heap because we won’t have enough decent access to satisfy the Highways people and that’s that,’ finished Derek Hitchin flatly. ‘Knockdown bargain or not.’
    Auriole Allen stirred uneasily and said, ‘Derek, as the person in charge of press and public relations in this firm, might I point out that it would be as well if we avoided referring to Tolmie Park…’
    ‘What’s left of it,’ interrupted Derek Hitchin, quite unrepentant.
    ‘What’s left of it, then,’ conceded Auriole Allen, ‘as an old heap.’
    It was house policy to keep the belligerent Derek Hitchin, their very able but distinctly short-fused project manager, away from as many outside contacts as possible. His abrasive manner worked very well with sub-contractors and suppliers; it went down less well with officials and local councillors.
    And the press. Especially the press.
    Auriole Allen turned on a winning professional smile and went on, ‘The local papers might get to hear of it and you know what they’re like when they sense a row. And then before you can say knife, it’s in all the nationals.’
    ‘Auriole’s right, of course,’ said Lionel Perry peaceably, well aware that there was nothing the combative Hitchin liked better than a row.
    With anyone. With everyone.
    ‘Not a good idea, Derek,’ he went on easily. Lionel Perry was the very embodiment of a company chairman. Silver-haired and silver-tongued, and of a notably benevolent mien, he photographed well and knew it. It was Lionel Perry’s face that figured on the firm’s advertisements and promotional brochures. It was an image that was worth a lot.
    ‘Don’t forget, Derek, that the history of the bank’s involvement in Tolmie Park has been kept out of the papers.’
    ‘So far,’ Auriole Allen reminded them tautly. ‘Only so far. Don’t forget that you can never be quite sure what the press know but aren’t going to print until the time’s ripe. They’re very good at that.’
    ‘The Calleshire and Counties Bank won’t thank us for making it public anyway,’ said the chairman.
    Robert Selby sniffed. ‘Too right, they won’t. Their Douglas Anderson has always been a bit tight-lipped about what happened there.’
    Lionel Perry added lightly, ‘And you never know when we’re going to need some extra finance from them ourselves.’
    ‘Worse than the press,’ Robert Selby came back smartly in his customary role as Cassandra, ‘is that the Berebury Council’s conservation people might get to hear that Derek here thinks the house an old heap. You know what they’re like with their precious listed buildings.’
    ‘You don’t have to tell me,’