Dangerous Encounters

Chapter 25 The ultimate confrontation and death of the innocent

It was now mid June, and hot. We were in the middle of the pour of the big octagonal slab. Every fifteen minutes a ten ton mixer truck arrived and filled the hopper of one of the two concrete pumps, and the operators discharged their output on the advancing face of the concrete slab. Behind them the crew inserted ten foot long vibrator tubes to remove air bubbles, and finally the precision floater formed and smoothed the top surface to the level dictated by the controlling laser beam. 

To ensure that the pour was not interrupted we had suspended all other work on the site. The lap-top picked this weekend and I rang Ruth, but couldn't raise her. I suppressed my deep discontent. It would have been difficult to get time together with the pour going on. But we could have tried. 

Steve was happy, it was going well, and I too was feeling we had the job by the throat and we were going to win. We were half way through in forty one hours and were ahead of our programme. 

At eight o'clock Friday evening we had a phone call from Alan at the quarry. I took it. 

"You'd better get down here Graham. There's a protest group here and the police won't help us get rid of them. A truck mixer's been held up ten minutes already and I don't see a logical end to it." 

"Damn - OK." 

"Steve, get water sprays to cool down the the new face. We have a glitch with the deliveries. Give me as much time as you can, and hedgehog the face with reinforcing steel." 

"You can't stick it together Graham." 

"I know that, but we must do the best we can. Alright?"

"OK boss, how many more loads to come before we run out?"  

"Six." 

As I unlocked the car I thought heard a helicopter approaching but hurried to start the journey. In shirtsleeves I drove south thirty miles of motorway M18, and M1 to junction 29, five miles on the dual carriageway into the setting sun to Chesterfield, and then ten miles of minor A roads through the switchback Derbyshire hills to the quarry. 

Some quarter of a mile before the quarry entrance proper was the intimidating wall of limestone through which a cut had been blasted to accommodate the single track road climbing to the quarry. This was Hangman's Gap. As I passed through the stone cut a chill passed through  me such as I'd never felt  before. 

I arrived at dusk. At the quarry entrance was a single panda car, a car I didn't know but which presumably had carried the reporter with two cameras slung over his shoulder seemingly waiting for something to happen, Alan's Range Rover, and now my red Granada.  The lone policewoman stood, arms folded. to one side of three women protesters. Her attitude seemed to indicate she was protecting them from the rest.

Looking like some huge rotating caterpillar was a close packed queue of five mixer trucks.  

Lying across the path of the first of these was Ruth, with Pat one side and Amanda the other standing with placards, this time saying, "Save our hills from the ravages of man." 

Ruth looked if anything slimmer, but perhaps that was because she wore a striking white cotton summer dress. 

I looked at Alan. "Why won't the police help?" 

"Says they're peaceful, there's only three, and I need a court order. She's not inclined to help me any more than she is compelled. There's a lot local of opposition to this quarry." 

"Pity you didn't make that clear with your offer. OK, Alan, move your trucks back into the quarry. I need to talk. I can't hear myself think with all those diesels clattering."