It was so very calm and still. Even the dingy clouds above the rooftops appeared to have stopped moving. They were, what, less than three miles from Piccadilly Circus? She could see the Telecom Tower through rain- spackled glass, although the top was hidden within low cloud. You forgot that there were still postwar pockets like this. Dark little houses. Cool still rooms. Ticking clocks. Settling dust. Polished wood. Time stretched back to the boredom of childhood. The houses were charming but slightly bothersome, as though they were waiting to dust down some half-buried memory and expose it to the light. Something here was comforting, yet best forgotten, a temporal paradox only serving to prove that you couldn’t go back.
Kallie let the curtain fall. The front door opened and quickly closed. Heather came in with a smug smile on her face.
‘If you don’t ask, you don’t get.’ She grabbed Kallie’s arm. ‘His name’s Ben Singh. Sounds like a character from
Kallie thought of the dark windows and doors behind which a woman had died, and smiled back uncertainly.
6. TAKING THE PLUNGE
‘I don’t understand how you got my mobile number.’
Paul Farrow set his beer back on the bar and studied the two men perched on stools before him. They had announced themselves as Garrett and Moss, sounding like an old music-hall act, but were involved in property. They represented a matched pair, a modern-day version of Victorian Toby jugs, with their grey suits, sclerotic cheeks and thinning fair hair, pink ties knotted loosely, stomachs forcing gaps between the buttons of identical blue-striped shirts. The heavier jug, Garrett, wore rings made from gold coins. As a plea for credibility, the look was singularly unsuccessful. Paul wore torn Diesel jeans and a black sweater, the regalia of the media man, regarded with disdain by men in cufflinks. They were doomed to be enemies before anyone had opened their mouth.
‘I’ve been in touch with Mr Singh on a number of previous occasions,’ said Garrett. ‘Obviously, properties like the house belonging to Mr Singh’s sister are highly prized in this area because of their proximity to the new King’s Cross rail link. We have a lot of European interest.’
‘So Mr Singh came to you for a sale.’ Paul fingered the beaded sandalwood strap on his wrist as he studied the two men, taking a fantastic dislike to them.
‘Not exactly.’ Garrett fidgeted atop his stool while he sought a way to shift the facts into a better light. ‘I’ve been trying to impress on him the importance of achieving the maximum financial benefit from his inheritance, and heard you were in touch-’
‘Bit aggressive, these selling tactics, aren’t they?’
‘Pro-activity in the marketplace, pal.’
Paul sipped his free pint, knowing that he was about to discover its price. ‘He doesn’t want to sell to you, does he?’
Moss stepped in. He appeared to be sweating, even though the bar of the Pineapple pub on Leverton Street was cold. Theresa, the barmaid, was keeping a watchful eye on them; spotting fights before they happened was a talent that came with her job.
‘Listen, sonny, we’re in the middle of delicate negotiations with Mr Singh and the last thing any of us needs is you coming along and upsetting them.’
‘Sorry, I missed what it is you do,’ said Paul sharply, waving his forefinger between them. ‘You’re not part of this guy’s agency but you’re working with him-how does that operate?’
‘I’m the property developer.’ Moss had meant this as a declaration of pride; he might have announced that he was a child molester. ‘Mr Singh stands to make a lot of money by selling at the right time to the right person.’
‘Which you think is you. And you plan to divide his sister’s property into how many flats?’
‘We haven’t decided yet. They’ll be for executives, you know-beech floors, slate kitchen counters, dormer windows. King’s Cross in ten minutes, Europe in a couple of hours. Camden Council is buying up everything it can get its hands on. It’s a gold rush. There’s big money to be made.’
‘But Mr Singh doesn’t want to sell to you. Am I missing something?’
Garrett realigned his matches on top of his cigarette box, next to his pint. ‘He’ll sell. He’s going to Australia.’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’
‘His oldest girl lives in Brisbane. He wants to be with her family because they’re expecting twins any day now, so he has to make a fast sale.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘He’ll suffer a substantial loss by letting the house go in its present state.’
The conversation was starting to bore Paul. He watched a shoal of curled oak leaves tumbling past the pub window, battered by rain and wind. Somewhere the air was warm and scented with the sea, but not in this hemisphere. ‘I think I’m beginning to understand. The market’s stagnant at the moment and the King’s Cross interchange won’t be finished for years, but if you buy the property now, you can get your pal here to carve it up, chuck in recessed lighting and en-suite bathrooms, and be ready to make a killing when executives flood in from Europe.’
‘We’ll hardly make a killing on one property, Mr Farrow. It’s a toe in the water until we’re ready to take on larger conversions in the surrounding area. But we’re keen to see whether it will work. Number
‘Listen, the question is academic, because the Singh guy has already agreed to sell to my girlfriend. He likes her.’
‘But there’s nothing in writing between you,’ smiled Garrett. ‘I think the game is still open. I would be in a position to compensate you for the inconvenience of switching your attention to another property-’
‘From your own books, the asking price of which you’d mark up by the size of your bribe.’
Garrett removed a white envelope from his briefcase and placed it on the bar between them. ‘Listen, lad, we’re businessmen, not comedy gangsters, and this is just a reimbursement cheque, standard business practice, something you probably don’t understand. Think of it as payment for having done our groundwork.’
‘I haven’t done anything.’
‘Your girlfriend spoke with Mr Singh and talked up the idea of selling. She’s paved the way. So in effect, you’ve been freelancing for us, and we’d like to repay you for your efforts. All you have to do is let us put the property in our name.’
‘You guys are amazing.’ Paul shook his head in wonder. ‘Take a look around you.’ He ran his hand over the polished counter. ‘How old would you say this pub is?’
Garrett looked at Moss, puzzled. ‘I don’t know. The fittings are original, maybe 1870?’
‘A couple of years ago, a property company tried to tear the pub down and turn it into offices. The street’s residents put up a fight until the council was forced to list the bar, and the company backed off. Now it’s the most popular local in these parts. They’re on to people like you around here. I’m surprised you got through the door without setting off the Scumbag Alarm.’
‘You won’t be able to go to the council on this one, Mr Farrow.’ Garrett’s smile faded as he took back the envelope. ‘Balaklava Street has nothing worth listing, the place is filthy and the floors are rotten. You’ll need new electrics, new plumbing, a new roof, damp courses. It’ll cost you a fortune to do up. It’s only good for pulling down and starting again, and you’ll never get the planning permission without throwing a lot of cash at Camden. You just missed the gravy train.’
‘Then why are you looking so miserable about it?’ Paul rose to leave. He needed some fresh air, but for now the streets of north London would have to do. ‘Thanks for the drink.’
‘River water,’ said Oswald Finch testily. ‘Which word don’t you understand?’
‘She was sitting in a chair, not fished out of the Thames,’ replied Bryant. ‘How can it be river water?’
