A short, short story
“I’m not making any accusations,” The man said, looking up from a stack of files that had been pawed through 10 or 15 times over the past couple of years, “But this could become evidence.”
The clerk shook his head at the mess the man was making of the files. It would take an hour to put them back together.
“What’s important,” the man said, “Is what is not here.” He adjusted his glasses and ran his hand back through his immaculate, silver hair. “I’m not seeing due diligence here – is there a site survey or a level one environmental assessment?” he picked up a file and looked underneath like something might be hiding there.
“What’s important,” the man said, “Is what is not here.” He adjusted his glasses and ran his hand back through his immaculate, silver hair. “I’m not seeing due diligence here – is there a site survey or a level one environmental assessment?” he picked up a file and looked underneath like something might be hiding there.
“Everything we have is in those files.” The clerk said.
“You know, I used to be an investigative reporter so I’m used to doing this kind of research,” the man said.
“I believe you mentioned that the last time you were in.”
“Are there aerial photographs of the site that are contemporaneous with the purchase?”
“Everything we have is on the table.”
“Somebody is hiding something.” He loosened his necktie and fumbled with the top button of his starched white shirt.
“No doubt.” The clerk said. “I guess you have to establish who benefited from this sale and why they avoided due diligence when we now know there is no problem with the property.”
The man put down the document he was reading and looked at the clerk.
“And how was it engineered?” he continued. “The attempt to buy that property went on for nine years, through two council elections, three negotiators and two public works directors.” “I don’t envy your task sir, it will require a man with your journalistic background and extraordinary patience to ferret this out.”
“I know who is behind this,” the man said. He glanced around to make sure no one could overhear. “I’m not making any accusations, but . . .”
“Say no more,” the clerk said, “It would make my job more difficult. I’m just here to provide records.”
“Can you make me photocopies of these?”
The clerk took the papers the man held out. He knew without looking that they were the topographic maps he’d copied for the man twice before.
“The smoking gun, sir?” he asked.
The man held his hands up innocently. “As I said, I’m not making any accusations . . . yet.”
(c) Stan Matthews 2009
