As Mad as Hell (Book 2 in 'Bedfellows' thriller series)

I’m as mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore!

Network (Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer) 1976

Part One

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Chapter 1

Dateline: February 2001 - Brighton, UK

The wasteland next to the Sand Sculpture Festival site was a popular place for amorous teenagers to indulge their precocious sexuality, and seventeen-year-old Pete was well aware of this. However, he was labouring under the illusion that it was only he that was aware of this fact. In truth, his sixteen-year-old female companion, Kylie, was not only fully conscious of the significance of a ‘visit to the sands’, but had been telegraphing the upcoming event to her closest friends for the last week.

The sun was just setting over the sea as they arrived and felt their way along the chicken wire fence until they found the well-used breach.

Have you been here before? asked Kylie.

Maybe, said Pete. Go on then, I gotta be home by ten.

As Kylie scrambled through the fence, Pete patted her rear. She giggled, but did not object. Inside the enclosure they settled into a dip in the sand that hid them from the road.

Bet you’ve been here millions of times, she said.

Pete produced a bottle of cider from under his jacket. He unscrewed the cap and offered it to his companion. She took a long drink.

Are you cold? he asked taking off his jacket.

You gonna warm me up if I say yes?

"If you play ya cards right."

She took his jacket and rolled it into a pillow, then lay down placing her head onto it.

You want some of this? she said, and held the bottle out to him.

He didn’t drink, but instead tried to stand the bottle up in the sand. The uneven ground made the process difficult, and it took several attempts before he was satisfied that their liquor was secure.

This smells nice, said Kylie burying her nose into the cloth of Pete’s coat.

Pete laughed awkwardly.

Smells of you, she said, I like that.

She looked up at him and smiled. Pete’s cheeks reddened, and he turned his face to the shoreline and the evening breeze.

So, said Kylie, did you bring me here to look at the sea?

No, mumbled Pete.

What then?

"Dunno," he said childishly.

Do you wanna kiss me? she said. Pete nodded tight-lipped. Come on, then.

He adjusted his position to lie next to her, then moved his head in close. They kissed, and he put his arm around her. As he made this final manoeuvre one of his feet pushed against the bottle of cider. It toppled over and glugged its contents over the sand.

Pete jumped up.

Bollocks! he said grabbing at the bottle to arrest the spill.

Kylie sat up giggling, then stopped suddenly.

What’s that? she said pointing at the ground.

What’s what?

The small torrent of cider had washed the sand away from something that was now sticking into the evening air.

Pete and Kylie crawled with trepidation towards the object.

A shrill scream issued from Kylie’s mouth. She held her hands up in front of her face; unable to move; petrified.

Pete stared at the object with his mouth open. A dribble of saliva rivered down his chin. A lifeless, disembodied hand, glistening with cider, protruded from the sand, its fingers in a loose fist.

New York City, USA

Gold Properties Inc. occupied three complete floors of the Lower Manhattan fifty storey building just south of 14th Street. Garry Gold’s office was a large corner slice of the forty-ninth floor. His subordinates scurried around on the other two floors beneath his feet.

The New York born, fifty-eight-year-old tycoon looked up as he detected his door opening. His P.A. Marsha Green had squeezed her head around the half-opened entrance.

Yes? said Gold.

Johnson Kops is here to see you, Sir.

Gold’s eyebrows elevated a little. He got up from his desk.

Well, don’t leave him hanging around outside, said Gold, bring him in.

Marsha disappeared for a moment, then reappeared with a distinguished, suited man in his early forties. Gold approached him vigorously with his right hand extended.

John, it’s good to see you.

Kops smiled and shook Gold’s hand. The two men sat.

So, said Gold, how’re things at The Company?

Busy! said Kops stoically. "But I’m not at Langley anymore. I’m at Fort Fumble."

Gold’s eyebrows moved skywards for a second time in as many minutes.

You’re still with the CIA, though? asked Gold.

Sure, Kops sneered, who do you think runs the Pentagon? It’s not the fucking military, is it? Kops looked around the spacious office. Looks like you’re doing okay.

I’m doing all right, Gold said rising languidly. Fancy a drink, John?

Sure.

What will you have? asked Gold.

Bourbon, Kops replied. Gold stared at him. What? What did I say?

Bourbon? echoed Gold. Really, you want to drink that shit? Bourbon is for dumb Americans. Irish whiskey is the nectar of the gods.

Gold moved to a drinks cabinet and returned to Kops with two glasses and a bottle of Jameson’s.

Bourbon is a sour mash distilled only once. This... he held the bottle high in the air and allowed the sun from the window to caress its contents, …is distilled three times. He poured generous quantities into the glasses and handed one to Kops. Tell me that doesn’t make ‘JD’ taste like horse piss by comparison?

Kops sipped from his glass, then looked at Gold. He nodded approval.

So, John, what can I do for you?

I’m not going to fuck around, Garry. We’re in a bit of a fix. We, down at the Pentagon, are looking for a safe pair of hands. A patriot we can trust.

And I’m that man, am I? said Gold.

We’ve got some big wheels moving. We need to get as many ‘sound’ people around us as we can muster.

Gold paused, looked out of the window, then back to Kops.

Who the fuck speaks like that? Is that how they’re teaching you to talk at the Pentagon?

What? said Kops with an expressionless face.

I preferred the Langley ‘fuck you where you stand’ method, continued Gold. At least you knew where you stood. The way you’re speaking I’m not sure if you’re about to ask me to assassinate the President or invite me to the prom.

Kops looked down at his glass and spun the amber liquid with a circular motion. He brought his gaze back to Gold.

I’m not here because some ass-wipe general told me to come, said Kops. "I haven’t come because I need something from you. I came here, you cantankerous old scrote, because I wanted to do you a favour."

Now you’re talking a language I can understand.

Good, said Kops. I said something big is happening. That’s the biggest understatement I’ve ever uttered. We’ve got jammed-up, Kops laughed, constipated if you will.

And you need a good shit? offered Gold.

Like you wouldn’t believe, said Kops.

And you need someone to supply the enema?

Oh, no, Garry. We have the enema. We just need someone to help us…get the tube in.

You’ll forgive me, John, said Gold, so far it just sounds like you’re giving me the opportunity to get covered in someone else’s shit.

"That’s always the risk, Garry, but you’ll also stand to make enough money to loosen even your bowels."

Gold sipped from his glass. He smiled at Kops.

Are you all obsessed with ‘shit’ metaphors at Fort Fumble or is it just you?

Probably just me, said Kops holding out his glass for a refill.

London, UK

Detective Chief Superintendent Barnsfield stood up as a police constable showed a man and a woman into his office.

Simon and Tina Jones, announced the constable, before moving backwards to the door and closing it behind himself.

Barnsfield shook the hands of the middle-aged couple that stood in front of him. Tina was slender and attractive; her husband striking with chiselled features and piercing blue eyes.

It’s been a while since we’ve had some of your chaps here, said Barnesfield, waving for the two to sit down, and descending into his own high-backed office chair.

We’ll try not to get in your way, Superintendent, said Simon.

No, no, stammered Barnsfield, I didn’t mean that. I just wondered if there’s a specific reason…for MI6’s interest? I mean, if any of your lot come visiting it’s usually MI5.

The local mob, said Simon.

Precisely, said Barnsfield. Is there something I should be aware of?

Tina smiled.

There’s really nothing to worry about, Superintendent, she said.

Bob, please call me Bob, interrupted Barnsfield.

Really, Bob, this is pretty much routine, reassured Tina. As I’m sure you’re aware, there has been some increase in terrorist ‘chit-chat’, but nothing conclusive; nothing to start worrying about.

So you’re just nosing around. said Barnsfield, gathering intelligence.

That is the name of our department, said Simon. Military Intelligence.

Indeed it is, said Barnsfield.

So, what’s happening at the moment? asked Simon. Anything unusual?

Nothing of an international flavour, no, but we do have a worrying situation at present.

What’s that? asked Simon.

Barnsfield’s hand had been resting on a case file on his desk since he had re-taken his chair. Simon glanced briefly at the file, then back to Barnsfield.

The daughter of one of our detectives, John Castle, has gone missing.

How long? asked Tina.

Barnsfield’s eyes radiated angry pain.

Four weeks on Saturday, he said.

Anything to go on? asked Tina.

Nothing that goes anywhere, said Barnsfield.

He picked up the file, opened it and leafed through the papers inside. He stopped and pursed his lips, then exhaled heavily.

She was mixed up with the son of a nasty piece of work called Donald Dawson, he explained. But we can find nothing on the boyfriend or the family. They all check out.

Barnsfield closed the file and looked up.

So, who’s this Dawson? asked Tina.

A local villain, said Barnsfield, small-time.

But a villain’s son and a detective’s daughter, said Simon, sounds like a disaster waiting to happen.

That’s what we all thought, Barnsfield tossed the file onto his desk, but they’re squeaky bloody clean…as far as Diane Castle’s disappearance is concerned.

Simon tentatively reached out to the file on the desk.

Do you mind if I take a look? asked Simon.

Please, said Barnsfield, leaning forwards in his chair and pushing the file towards his visitors, maybe you’ll spot something we missed, but I doubt it.

Simon picked the file up.

Can we take it away?

As long as it doesn’t leave the station, Barnsfield said getting up.

The door suddenly burst open. A man in his twenties, one hand on the doorknob and the other on a half-eaten sandwich, looked wide-eyed at Barnsfield, ignoring the Superintendent’s visitors. He was dressed in a shirt and tie, but the tie had been loosened, and the knot badly constructed. Some of the contents of his sandwich nestled in a fold in his shirt. He glanced quickly at Simon and Tina.

Sorry, he said to the two strangers without sincerity, then looked back to Barnsfield. We’ve got a body.

Simon and Tina rose with grave reverence.

The Superintendent gently cleared his throat.

Where? he said.

Brighton, Super, said the dishevelled man, on some waste ground; a shallow grave. A couple of horny teenagers discovered it.

Barnsfield narrowed his eyes.

Is it her, Keith? he asked.

The younger policeman punched the door frame. A small piece of tomato fell from his sandwich.

From the description, Super, it looks pretty conclusive.

Does Castle know? asked Barnsfield in a whisper. The younger detective shook his head. Keith, listen to me. I want to keep it that way until we’re sure.

The Superintendent walked around his desk and made for the door. Simon placed his hand gently on Barnsfield’s arm.

Can we help? Simon asked.

Barnsfield’s nostrils flared, and his bottom lip quivered.

Thanks, he said taking the case file back from Simon, but this is a family matter.

New York City, USA

Joanna Ikarrus had been sipping the same latte at Starbucks for the last thirty minutes. The coffee had gone cold some time ago, but she hadn’t noticed. Since arriving at work that morning and looking through the contracts waiting on her desk, her mind had been a maelstrom of questions building in intensity.

As a junior lawyer at Gold Properties, she knew her job was to process paperwork not to question it, but there were too many anomalies with this lease not to say something. Normally, she would just talk to the senior property lawyer. However, there had been a Post-it attached to the paperwork saying, ‘Just get this done - quickly’ from the same senior lawyer with whom she would have consulted. Nevertheless, she had tried to talk to him, but he had yelled at her. That was half an hour ago, before she had stormed out and minutes later found herself in Starbucks.

Next to her cold coffee her laptop lay open with multiple tabs crowding the top of the Google window filling the screen. She stared out of the coffee shop into the street; the windows to her soul glazed and unemotional, but inside righteous resolution clawed at self-preservation. She slammed the screen of her laptop closed, picked it up and started the short walk back to the office.

The lift doors opened onto the forty-ninth floor landing. Joanna hesitated. She could feel increasing dampness under her arms. The lift ‘ding’d’, and the doors started to close. She instinctively threw her right leg forwards, interrupting the closing doors with her foot. The mechanism jerked and the doors reversed their travel.

Outside Gold’s office Joanna tried to steady her breathing. A voice came from behind her.

Yes, said Marsha Green, can I help you?

Joanna swivelled her head to look at Marsha.

I need to see Mr. Gold.

He’s very busy, responded Marsha, you’ll need to make an appointment.

It’s urgent, insisted Joanna.

Marsha stared at the young woman.

What’s this about?

Joanna turned squarely to the P.A.

Tell him it’s about the World Trade Center, said Joanna. Tell him there’s a serious problem with the lease.

Brighton, UK

It took two hours for the unmarked police car containing Barnsfield and his driver to arrive at the Brighton coast. At the end of Marine Parade, the black limousine veered right onto some waste ground between the Sand Sculpture Festival site and Marina Way. The Detective Chief Superintendent’s car pulled to a dusty halt. The Sussex police force had erected a tent and cordoned off the area with plastic blue and white crime scene tape.

Barnsfield emerged from his car and moved slowly to the tape barrier. He stood looking mournfully at the white tent. A man in a cheap suit, wearing white latex gloves, approached from within the cordoned zone. He nodded to Barnsfield.

Sir, he said, DCI Cartmell. He studied the Superintendent, then looked past him to the parked car. Just you, is it Sir?

Barnsfield nodded.

What do we have, Inspector?

The DCI lifted the barrier and beckoned the Superintendent under the tape as he replied.

A teenage girl; well dressed; no sign of sexual assault. Bruised over much of her face and body. The SOCO believes she’s been here three to four weeks.

And the cause of death? asked Barnsfield.

SOCO believes a blow to the side of her head, said Cartmell.

A fist or a foot…? inquired Barnsfield.

No, said the DCI emphatically, something substantial and hard.

A blunt instrument, said Barnsfield.

Yes, Sir, a blunt instrument, echoed Cartmell. We’ll know more when we get the autopsy results.

Barnsfield gazed towards the tent.

Any I.D.?

Cartmell handed the Superintendent a small card he had been holding during the conversation. Barnsfield studied it, holding the object carefully by its edges between his index finger and thumb; a library card. He ran his tongue from side to side over his lips, then sighed, and handed the card back to the Inspector.

I want to take her back to London, said Barnsfield.

When we’ve finished, you can have the body, said Cartmell.

No, said Barnsfield, I’m taking her back with me.

I’m sorry, Sir, Cartmell said with authority, but she was found on our patch, and she needs to be processed here.

Barnsfield trembled with emotion. He pointed towards the incident tent.

That, Inspector, is the murdered body of the daughter of one of my detectives. She was sixteen-years-old, and it appears she was beaten to death. Do you really want me to tell Detective Inspector John Castle that his little girl will be given back to him when DCI Cartmell has finished cutting her up on a slab?

Cartmell looked down at the library card, then at his feet.

No, Cartmell said, I…err…I’ll… He held the library card out to Barnsfield, then started to back away. I’ll have her sent straight to London.

The Inspector headed towards the tent, and Barnsfield watched him disappear into the canvas structure. Barnsfield turned as he heard footsteps behind him.

Is it her, Sir? asked his driver.

Yeah, said Barnsfield, it’s her.

New York City, USA

Joanna Ikarrus stood in front of Garry Gold’s desk. Gold reclined languidly in his chair, but his rapidly tapping left foot under his desk suggested inner tension.

I’m a junior lawyer, said Joanna, and I’ve been handed this, she held up the folder relating to the World Trade Center lease.

You told Marsha this is urgent, said Gold, so, please cut to the chase. I’m a busy man, Miss…?

Ikarrus, Joanna Ikarrus. I wouldn’t normally bother you with this type of thing, but…but…

But what? What? For god’s sake, spit it out! insisted Gold.

This, Joanna waved the folder in front of her, this is all wrong.

Gold’s foot tapping suddenly stopped. He smiled graciously and gestured to an upholstered chair in front of his desk.

Sit, sit, Miss Ikarrus.

Thank you, Sir, Joanna said descending into the seat.

Just tell me what you’re so worked up about, Gold said.

This is a ninety-nine year lease for the World Trade Center complex, and my job is to check over the feasibility of the project; make sure everything is above board and nothing is going to jump up and bite us at some later stage.

Okay, said Gold slowly.

Well, nothing seems… her voice petered out

Would you like some water? offered Gold.

No, Joanna said with a wave of her hand, no, I’m fine. Thank you.

Gold nodded.

Go on, he encouraged. Do you think I’m going to get my ass bitten?

Well, said Joanna, her cheeks reddening. She slapped the folder onto Gold’s desk, I think someone’s trying to swindle you, Sir.

Swindle me? repeated Gold, how?

In just about every possible way, Sir, said Joanna. The lease purchase price is far too high for any reasonable return on investment; three-point-two billion, the rent income is pitiful compared to the maintenance costs and more than the first year’s income will be spent on the basic outstanding refurbishments…some, she picked up the folder and checked through the papers, two hundred million dollars.

Gold smiled again.

You sure about that water?

Yes, Sir, I’m sure.

As I understand it, your job is to check over the legality of the deals not to give me business advice.

I’m sorry, Mr. Gold, I’m not trying to…I’m sorry, it just makes no sense.

As I say, Gold reiterated, are there any problems you can see from a legal point of view?

No, Joanna stammered, nothing seems illegal, but the WTC is a white elephant; it always has been. It’s riddled with asbestos, every nook and cranny is full of rot…and as I said, we’ll have to spend two hundred million this year alone.

Gold cut her off.

Not we, my dear, I’ll have to spend two hundred million, not you, said Gold. Listen, I’m very appreciative of your dedication to my well-being, but I’m sitting in this chair because I have the bigger picture, I know what I’m doing. You, Joanna Ikarrus, are sitting in that chair. By the time the paperwork gets to you, I have signed off on it. Look, he smiled again and cocked his head to one side, I don’t want to sound unkind, but…well, I think you’re worrying above your pay grade. Joanna chewed her lip. What you have there, he pointed to the folder in Joanna’s hand, is only the legal part of the story. Just check that nothing being proposed is going to have the Feds banging at our door, and your work’s done.

Joanna pulled a page from the folder and held it up to Gold.

There are a number of documents listed in the index, but they’ve all been removed. I can’t make a sound judgement with documents missing, can I? So I…I took the liberty of doing some research online…

…There you go again, said Gold, sounding like a school headmaster, not your worry, Miss…I’ve got this, really, I’ve got this. Gold looked down at some paperwork on his desk, and spoke without looking up. Was there anything else?

No, just that, said Joanna.

Right, said Gold, standing and gesturing towards the door, thanks very much for coming to see me, but in future, unless the building’s on fire, take it to your supervisor rather than traipsing all the way up here.

Joanna got to her feet, and started towards the door.

I’m sorry I disturbed you, Sir, she said.

That’s okay, said Gold, no harm done.

It’s just…

What Miss Ikarrus, it’s just what?

Why are we rushing this through? Why do we have to complete before September?

We all have to dance to our masters, Miss Ikarrus. Pay attention to your steps, and leave the choice of music to a higher power.

Marsha put her head around the door.

Johnson Kops from the Pentagon on line three for you, Mr. Gold.

Joanna looked at Gold.

Thank you, Marsha. Maybe you can see that Miss Ikarrus gets back downstairs safely.

London, UK

Barnsfield arrived back at the police station in London later that night. Diane Castle’s body was in transit direct to the coroner. He hadn’t uttered a word since leaving Brighton. His demeanour as he walked from the car park to the station was heavy and sombre.

Barnsfield went straight to his office. As he opened the door, three heads turned to him. Simon and Tina Jones were either side of an agitated man standing at the window. The man turned at the sound of the door. His eyes were red, and the tears he had wiped away were beginning to replenish.

When were you going to tell me? he said angrily.

When we knew for certain, replied Barnsfield soothingly.

And? asked the man, stoically.

I’m so sorry, John, said Barnsfield.

He heard on the radio, said Simon. He insisted on being in here to see you the moment you got back.

The man’s knees buckled, and Barnsfield rushed forwards. The man thrust his hand up in front of himself; warning his superior off. Barnsfield stopped. John Castle grappled his way along the Superintendent’s desk, then collapsed into the high-backed chair. His breathing came in spasms.

You’re sure it’s h… Castle said, not managing to complete his sentence.

I’m so sorry, John, Barnsfield repeated.

Who would do…why would…? stammered Castle almost incoherently. FUCK! he shouted, then swept his arm across the desk sending its contents flying.

We’ll find out who did this, John. You can be sure of that, said Barnsfield. Trust me, John, these bastards are going to pay.

Who gives a fuck? shouted Castle. His face contorted into painful ugliness and tears now freely flowing down his cheeks. Who gives a fuck? My little girl…My little g… he crumpled onto the desk, sobbing, My little girl… Barnsfield made a move towards him. Castle jerked his head up. She’s fucking dead! She’s fucking dead. She’s fucking d…

Barnsfield crossed the metre of space that separated the two men, and fought to embrace Castle. Angry, desperate fists rained down onto the Superintendent’s dark blue uniform until they finally relaxed into limp hands lifelessly swinging from emotionally exhausted arms.

Barnsfield looked up at Simon and Tina, and nodded; his face wearing his rank with fortitude. The Jones’ smiled knowingly.

Could you do me a favour and take this to the evidence room, said Barnsfield holding out a transparent bag.

Of course, said Simon taking the bag from him.

I don’t think I should leave him alone, said Barnsfield.

Simon and Tina left the room closing the door softly behind them.

Terrible thing, said Tina.

Simon nodded, then chewed his lip thoughtfully. They walked down the corridor, and after asking a constable, found the evidence room. A sergeant looked up from a desk.

Hi, said Simon, I’m Simon Jones and this is Tina. The Chief Superintendent’s just got back from Brighton.

Yes, Sir, I know. How’s he taking it - Castle?

He heard on the radio and went crazy; poor bugger, said Simon. I thought it best to let him wait in the Superintendent’s office. It was the only thing that calmed him down.

He’s doing okay, said Tina, the Super’s with him.

The sergeant nodded, then shook his head.

Shit! That’s got to be the worst. Have you got kids? the policeman asked.

One, replied Tina.

A boy, but Joseph’s grown up now, added Simon.

Yeah, said the sergeant staring into space. Hell of a thing, eh?

The Super’s asked us to bring this to you, said Simon, the girl’s belongings.

The sergeant nodded.

Yeah, thanks. Just leave them there, the sergeant said pointing to a desk. I’ll file them in a minute.

May we have a look? asked Simon.

Sure, the sergeant responded.

Simon unzipped the bag, but was halted by an informative cough from the policeman. Simon looked up. The sergeant was holding a pair of latex gloves out to him. Simon put the gloves on, then resumed his investigation of the evidence bag.

Simon placed each item onto the desk as he removed them. A purse containing a small amount of money. A hairbrush with strands of the victim’s hair caught in its spines. A library card bearing the name ‘Diane Castle’, and very strangely, a label from a whisky bottle. Simon held the label up to Tina. She pursed her lips and nodded. Simon smoothed the label out on the desk; Glenfarclas 1955. He took a pad of paper from his pocket and made some notes.

The constable that had given them directions earlier appeared at the door.

Ah, he said, I hoped you’d still be here. There’s a call for you; in the front office.

Simon placed the items from the desk back into the evidence bag, and he and Tina followed the constable back into the corridor.

New York City, USA

Joanna sat at a table in the back of a bar. She sipped from a glass of mineral water and looked around the crowded venue every few minutes. She jerked her head in recognition as a man in his late twenties entered. It took him just a few moments to scan the room and spot Joanna. He walked quickly over to her.

Have you been waiting long? he asked.

Not long enough to get drunk, Joanna replied.

He picked up her glass and sniffed the contents.

Not much chance on that stuff. Can I get you anything?

I’m fine with this, she said tapping the side of her glass.

She watched her friend walk over to the bar and jockey for a position to catch the eye of a Bartender. He returned a few minutes later carrying a glass of beer. He sat close to her, and took a long drink. He smiled.

Are you okay? he asked. You sounded a little panicky on the phone.

Look, I know you work on the ‘hatches, matches and despatches’ at the City Desk, but I need a perspective on something…oh, I don’t know…I…oh, fuck it! Joanna drank deeply from her glass.

Her companion stared at her with concern.

Jo, what’s wrong?

It’s something at work, Ben. Look, I’m not an idiot; I know Garry Gold is a dodgy son-of-a-bitch, but I think something really wrong is about to go down.

Ben shook his head.

What’s going on, Jo?

She reached into a large canvas bag at her side, and pulled out the folder she had earlier waved at Gold.

Gold’s buying a ninety-nine-year lease on the WTC complex, she said, placing the folder onto the table.

Ben stared at the folder, then moved his quizzical gaze to Joanna.

He’s doing what?

Exactly, she said, why the fuck would he buy that crumbling liability? And everyone’s pulling out all the stops to get it done at record speed as if it’s the sale of the century.

…And it’s not? asked Ben.

Well, this year alone is going to soak up two hundred million in basic maintenance. But it’s far worse than that. The whole thing is well known as an asbestos time bomb. I’ve been looking online, there’s loads of stuff. The complex has never functioned commercially. It’s been propped up by the City ever since it was first built in the seventies. No one has ever made any money from it, and according to the information I’ve been reading on the internet, it’s only got worse over the last few years because of new legislation about asbestos in commercial buildings.

And Gold wants to buy it? said Ben. Why?

I have no idea, said Joanna, taking another large gulp of mineral water. "The New York Port Authority have been applying