Staging Death

by Judith Cutler

  ‘No, no – you wouldn’t go that far, surely!’ I joked.

  ‘Actually,’ she said seriously, ‘I wouldn’t have wanted you to have to show him round. Mr Nasty, that’s what we called him.’

  Even in the bright sun, I felt a sudden chill. ‘He wasn’t actually called Cope, was he? A big man, looked as if he had to use the gym to keep his weight down. With a wife much younger than he?’

  ‘There was a wife. Lots of glitz, as I recall. And he – I’m no churchgoer, but I felt he was… evil. But he wasn’t called Cope. He was called – hell, these senior moments.’

  She wasn’t a day over forty, but I didn’t want to interrupt her chain of thought by saying so.

  ‘What was it now? Mr and Mrs…? We made a joke about the surname. That’s it. Mr and Mrs Carver. Carver by name and Carver by nature. The sort of man who’d have you off the road on a roundabout just because he felt like it.’

  ‘I think that your Mr Carver and my Mr Cope might be one and the same,’ I said.

  ‘So how did they manage to get valid ID?’ She sounded puzzled rather than apprehensive.

  I certainly felt apprehensive rather than puzzled. ‘Put it another way, how did they get hold of valid-looking ID? I suppose you haven’t got CCTV in your office yet?’

  ‘Not yet. It’s under discussion, of course. We have a little panic button under the reception desk if anyone gets really stroppy. What I do if there’s anyone who’s just suspicious-looking is wander out and casually take their photo on my mobile, without them knowing. It probably breaks all sorts of data protection laws, but what the hell? I don’t suppose old Moneybags has forked out for cameras at your place?’

  Sheltering my eyes, I peered upwards. ‘Can’t see any flying porkers, can you?’ As for a classy photo-taking mobile, I could feel my credit card wince. ‘I’ve been wondering,’ I continued slowly, and desperately wanting such a stable person’s encouragement, ‘if I ought to tell the police what’s been going on.’

  She gave a blink so huge she might have been the actress, not me. ‘And tell them what? That you don’t like the prospective purchasers you’ve had to show round? That would really help your agency’s reputation, I don’t think.’

  I bit my lip. I’d forgotten that when she’d left Burford’s she’d crossed the line into management, and would now think like a manager.

  ‘And I think you’ll find that the police want evidence these days,’ she continued, sounding more managerial by the second. ‘And the Crown Prosecution Service will. Hard evidence.’

  ‘You don’t think dodgy contact details would be evidence? And the same man visiting our agencies using different names? And someone tailing me?’

  ‘Tailing you? Did you get the number? Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ Had she once trained as a teacher?

  I shook my head. It was either that or hang it in shame.

  Mercifully our waitress arrived bearing our soup. We could change the topic of conversation with no loss of face on either side. Perhaps Heather thought she’d gone too far. She embarked on a wickedly funny story of how a rival agent, pompous enough to make Greg appear positively humble, had fallen through a patch of dry rot as he stamped his foot on what he swore was a perfect floor. I made myself laugh.

  As we waited for the bill, she turned serious again. ‘Let’s just for a moment assume that these clients of yours aren’t what they seem. What precautions are you taking?’

  ‘You mean me personally or Burford’s in general?’

  ‘Both. I assume everything you know about the client is logged and that you check that he’s who he says he is?’

  ‘That’s Greg’s job,’ I said, knowing full well how seriously he took it. ‘I make sure that Claire knows when and where I’m going. As a matter of fact I asked her to phone me the other day to make sure I was all right.’ I smiled as if expecting a gold star.

  ‘Have you preprogrammed your mobile with emergency numbers? I make our representatives put in 999 at the top of their list.’

  ‘But you just said I needed evidence to involve the police.’

  My gold star was whipped away. ‘There’s a difference between suspecting something vague and being damned sure someone’s about to attack you.’

  The statement came out unbidden: ‘I thought Cope could have had me killed – maybe killed me himself – and not turned a hair.’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘Key in 999, then. Now. Let me see you doing it. That’s a good girl. Now, one thing the Suzie Lamplugh Trust recommends is having a coded system of calls back to the office. Firstly – and I make this standard for my team – I insist that they always call from the property they’re showing to say they’ve arrived. The rule is that they can then say they’re checking for an important message. If they feel uneasy, they phone back asking for information from the blue file. This means the office must call back in less than five minutes. If it’s the red file they want, it means call the police pronto. Simple.’

  I nodded humbly. ‘Just two problems,’ I said. ‘Greg’s not such an enlightened boss as you are.’

  ‘Don’t involve Greg, for goodness’ sake. Claire’s bright enough, for all her sense of humour’s been amputated. Just involve her. And the other problem?’

  ‘I can’t imagine Mr Cope letting me use my mobile. He obviously wanted my full attention.’

  ‘Tell him that’s just tough – you have to do your job.’ Then she registered the expression on my face. ‘Ah. I see. You’re right. I wouldn’t have liked arguing with our Mr Carver.’

  It was suddenly clouding over and might even threaten rain, so I gladly accepted Heather’s offer of a lift back. The whole experience was as disorientating as before, especially when she had to reverse from her space and the thing started to emit strange beeps.

  ‘At least it doesn’t have a disembodied voice saying, Vehicle reversing,’ she said, with an embarrassed grin.

  The car slid along, silent as a milk float and a great deal more comfortable, easing its way past her agency so she could park in the patch at the rear of her office. Neither of us would have wanted her to contribute to Stratford’s congestion by parking on a double yellow line to decant me. I nearly caused an accident, however, when I grasped her wrist and squeaked. ‘Look! Over there! It’s the Turovskys!’

  The Turovskys it was, going into Heather’s agency. She swung into the car park, missing a wall by a millimetre. ‘Are you coming in?’

  ‘You bet. Am I about to become your new employee?’

  ‘You might be. You can think on your feet, can’t you?’

  ‘I rarely think on anything else.’

  Access was via a short passage full of boxes of A4 paper and other standard paraphernalia. One door led into her office, the other directly into the main office. She chose the former. I followed.

  ‘This is the deal,’ I said. ‘You call your receptionist – Jan, is it? – and tell her you’re showing round a potential part-time employee, but not to worry – you’re only going through the motions. We go through. I clock the Turovskys; we both watch their reactions.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll just brief Jan.’ A few pithy words and she cut the call. Fishing her mobile out of her bag, Heather led the way.

  Jan was busy at her computer screen, clicking the mouse with the irritation born of knowing that what she was doing was pointless.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Nikolaiev,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘That really is the only thing suitable.’ She settled some particulars in the sober but chic folder Heather favoured and closed it firmly.

  ‘I can guess what they want!’ I declared, horribly skittish. ‘How nice to see you again, Mr Turovsky. And Mrs Turovsky.’ I put out a hand to shake his, which remained, however, firmly in his pocket. Hell, what if he was holding a gun and his patience ran out? I pressed on nonetheless. ‘Something big and old, that’s right, isn’t it, Mr Turovsky? I’m so sorry none of the properties I showed you matched your expectations – perhaps you’ll do better here.’

  Mrs T
’s phone rang. At least something was playing a tinny chunk of Swan Lake.

  She answered immediately, looked anguished, and said something terse to her husband. She was almost rocking with shock. He took her arm to steady her.

  He frowned. ‘Another day, ladies. My wife’s mother has been taken ill.’ With that, he ushered her through the door and away down the street.

  Jan, a woman who didn’t care how many summers had baked her skin, leant forward, stringy arms folded challengingly across her crêpey chest. ‘And what was all that about?’

  Heather looked hard at me, with something like a smile creeping round her lips. ‘I think Vena may just have stopped us getting our fingers burnt. Those two are involved in a scam of some sort. Nikolaiev? Turovsky? I wonder how many other aliases they use. And, more to the point, what they’re using them for.’ She patted her phone. ‘I still don’t know about bothering the police,’ she said, ‘but what I will do is alert our colleagues. By sending out their photo, of course,’ she explained, her look of sad despair reducing me to a five year old again.

  I picked up the folder Jan had prepared. ‘Moat Farm. This is the place you were telling me about earlier?’

  ‘That’s right. The owner died a while back and his remaining family live in Australia. They’ve already stripped everything saleable out. It’s just the shell.’

  ‘Which was the Turovskys’ preferred state, of course. What the hell are they up to?’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Much as I’d have liked to go to the police with news of the Turovskys’ new persona, Heather talked me out of it. There was no crime, she said, in using a different name, at least as far as she knew. But she would ask around, and if she got any hard evidence would tell both me and the authorities. I didn’t like to override her, but what with that incident and the presence of mysterious cars in the neighbourhood, not to mention silent phones and empty envelopes, I was beginning to get rattled.

  Fortunately, out of the blue, Allyn summoned me, not to make changes to our plans for the house but for a new scheme altogether. She’d conceived an overwhelming desire for stained glass for what was currently a disused and probably deconsecrated chapel. Since it was built in 1780, and was unadorned to the point of nonconformist in all respects, I suspected that the plain glass now in situ was either original or at very least authentic. It wasn’t my job to tell her she was committing an architectural sin, but I spent a long time on the internet hunting for an artist with the sensitivity and the skill to tackle the job.

  It was fortunate that I had something to absorb me. The phone absolutely refused to ring about any of my other projects. Caddie didn’t return my calls; Ambrose emailed me to say his contact was at a conference in Perugia, but would be returning to the Barber on Friday; Heather was suddenly rushed off her feet, people liking to put their houses on the market in spring when the sun was shining; and no one wanted to look at any of Greg’s properties, not even the Thorpes’. There was nothing more I could do in the garden. I was reluctant to use my car for anything, and not just because of the cost of petrol. At least cycling would give the figure a bit of a boost. Just to add to the general gloom, I put myself on my annual really low-fat diet, which always made me bad-tempered.

  So one Friday afternoon, I was thinking I might have to settle for watching daytime TV.

  And a miracle happened. The phone rang.

  No, it wasn’t Caddie. It was Greg.

  ‘I thought as how I should let you know,’ he began, obvious glee bringing the Blackheath tones strongly to the fore, ‘that Knottsall Lodge is sold.’

  ‘What? The Turovskys?’

  ‘Who? Them Russians? No, an old mate of mine. Well, not strictly a mate. But I’ve met him on the golf course. Or somewhere. Anyway, he checked it out on the internet, gave me a bell and I showed him round. I know, but he was a mate, see. No arguments about the asking price. I’ve been on to the Westfields, and they’re more than happy. The solicitors are on to it. Only thing is he wants a full structural survey. And in a property that age, who can blame him?’

  ‘Who indeed?’

  ‘You might sound a bit pleased,’ he whined.

  ‘Pleased? I’m delighted for you. Well done. The truth is, Greg,’ I confessed, ‘I shall really miss the place.’

  ‘Come on, Vee, you’re paid to make other folk like it, not fall in love with it yourself. I mean, it’s hardly your price range, is it?’

  ‘Ever tactful, Greg.’ If I didn’t control my voice with irony, it might go and break on me. I only survived mixing with rich people like Toby and selling houses costing millions by pretending it was all fantasy. ‘No, nothing’s in my price range, is it?’

  ‘Well, who knows? – you may get another of them voice-overs for an advert. That’d bring home a bit of bacon, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘It would indeed. I shall just have to keep my fingers crossed.’

  ‘You can keep them crossed for something else and all. It’s not our usual thing, but someone’s thinking of selling a spanking new barn conversion through us. He’ll let us know on Monday. And you shall be the first to show round all the punters streaming through the door.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He meant well after all. Possibly. ‘Any more enquiries about Sloe Cottage?’

  ‘It’s a bit slow, if you get me.’ He paused for my obedient titter.

  ‘We have to get the Thorpes out for any future viewings,’ I said, having obliged. ‘They’d talk the hind leg off a donkey, wouldn’t they? And when they gabble on, I can’t tell who’s speaking or whom I should reply to. Another thing, they can’t accept offers because they need the precise amount of the asking price to buy their dream bungalow. And that was before they registered the need to pay stamp duty and your fee. You did make it clear, didn’t you, Greg?’

  ‘Make it clear? I even wrote it down. Honest! But you know what they’re like. So if they won’t accept offers, what are we going to do?’

  It was a long time since Greg had spoken to me as someone whose opinion might matter, so I was tempted to describe my behind-the-scenes activities with their pictures. But I wouldn’t break my promise. ‘I’ve had an idea for getting them out during some viewings at least,’ I boasted. ‘Though it may involve dipping into your pocket. I get hold of matinee tickets for them.’

  ‘Can’t that mate of yours rustle up some comps?’

  ‘How could I possibly ask him something like that?’ I demanded, my voice full of convincing outrage. To change the subject, I said, ‘I suppose there’s no chance of your putting in a word for me with the guy who’s bought Knottsall Lodge? As an interior designer? I’ve never done an Elizabethan house and it’d be a real challenge. And bring in a lot of shekels.’ I was Greg’s sister, after all.

  ‘Leave it as it is?’ Allyn’s voice rang through the chapel.

  Three of us were present: Allyn herself, me, and the stained-glass expert I’d invited to see the windows, Arwel Gryffydd, a Welshman in his forties.

  ‘But I’m employing you to change it,’ she snapped.

  Arwel Gryffydd’s eyes blazed at her. ‘To put tatty modern stuff in that – and I include my own poor efforts, madam – would be more than an insult, it would be blasphemy.’

  ‘Just for the record, Mr Gryffydd, since you’ve come all this way, from Pembrokeshire,’ she stressed the last syllable in the American way, ‘what would your recommendations be? I’ll pay, don’t you worry, both for your journey and for your professional services.’ Her tone was extremely patronising.

  I could almost see red-dragon smoke issuing from Arwel’s nostrils. ‘You already have an adviser, madam.’

  ‘But the floor – look at these broken tiles! Shall I carpet it? For warmth? Just the central aisle, maybe? And by the altar, when we’ve sourced one? Fancy someone taking away the altar!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘I don’t think it ever had an altar, not as such.’ He spread expressive hands at the box pews and huge pulpit, probably six feet square, complete with a heavy soun
d-reflecting canopy. ‘They’re in the right disposition as they are, Mrs Frensham. The more I look at it the more I’m convinced you’ve got a real gem here. A chapel from the time Methodism was beginning to influence church architecture. As for the floor, someone should be able to replace those damaged tiles. I know an architectural antiques dealer who might be able to help. At very least he won’t fob you off with Victorian rubbish. And I’m sure Ms Burford can deal with the kneelers and pew cushions.’

  Not being able to spend money, or in Allyn’s case, someone else’s money, didn’t seem to me to be a reason to fall into a sulk. At last Arwel agreed to take some cash off her for replacing a few cracked panes, and for cleaning the glass and mending any damaged lead, though he made it clear that he couldn’t start the job until late summer.

  I have never pretended to be brave, morally, that is, so I really did not wish to hang behind and speak to Allyn in private. I don’t think she wanted to speak to me either. I assumed that Toby’s explanation of any snapshots in the gutter press, which I never took anyway and therefore hadn’t seen, had failed to convince her that our meeting was innocent.

  ‘Allyn, is everything all right?’ I began, a spineless, neutral question if ever there was one. I must follow it up with something more specific. ‘Did that bloody snapper blazon Toby and me all over some red top?’

  ‘No. You did well there,’ she admitted grudgingly. Then curiosity got the better of her. ‘Acting one thing, saying another. How do you do it?’

  ‘Easy. Stamp your foot and wave your arms as if you’re furious, and tell me what you had for breakfast in a quiet gentle tone – as befits those rice cakes,’ I added with a grin. ‘Come on, you must have done it the other way round. When you’re at some posh Hollywood do with a bloke who’s treated you badly and you both have to smile for the cameras? Try it!’