by Angela Dyson
“I’m not sure that you understand me Mr. Napier. I’m not interested in registering, only in getting the right deal. Alwyn Road for example.”
“Alwyn Road? How do you know…?” he broke off.
“Are you available this morning?” I asked not giving him time to reply. “How about eleven o’clock? I’ll drop by your office, shall I?”
He blustered but I sensed a tinge of hesitation in his tone. “I’m not sure I’m free at eleven. And no, not at the office. I’ll be… out.”
“Fine. At the property then and we’ll make it half past. I’ll see you there.”
I put down the receiver, my hands sweating. Of course he probably wouldn’t turn up. Why should he just drop everything on the say-so of a total stranger? But I was relying on a combination of curiosity, unease, and my assumed breathy purr to send him popping into his BMW.
Deciding that my battered old Renault wouldn’t hold up under scrutiny, I parked a street away from Alwyn Road. Walking down the quiet residential street in the watery sunshine of early April, I thought about what Laura had told me. She was handling the estate of the late Miss Davenport, of which No 29 Alwyn Road comprised the major part. It had recently gone on the market through Simon’s agency, and so far, apparently there had been several viewings but no real interest.
As I reached the house a car pulled up. I was right about the BMW and Laura was right about his looks. Smooth but not flashy, tall with floppy blonde hair, regular features, and sporting a slight tan, he was a bit conventional for my taste but handsome enough. And it was my job now to convince him that I was who I claimed to be. Having totally failed to concoct any kind of a plan, I would just have to wing it.
“Ms. Buchanan, how do you do.” His handshake was firm.
I nodded my head in acknowledgement, suddenly feeling nervous and out of my depth. Suppressing an urge to turn and run back to the car as fast as my heels would carry me, I forced myself to smile. “Good morning Mr. Napier.”
“Shall we?” he asked and opened the front gate.
I followed him up a black and white tessellated path to the front door. Turning the key in the lock, he then gave the door a good shove as a large pile of mail blocked our entry. As he leant down to clear them aside, the seat of his pinstripe trousers stretched tautly across his butt.
The house turned out to be a dream, although it did need quite a lot of work. Early Victorian, double-fronted with six bedrooms, it clearly hadn’t been touched in decades, but was chock-full of original fireplaces and fancy ceilings. We exchanged only a few words as we toured the empty rooms, Simon pointing out various features and I concentrating on looking quietly knowledgeable. A look, I fear that I’m going to have to work on.
As we came back out into the fresh air he remarked, “Not much interest in such big houses these days, too expensive to maintain.”
I had to hide my surprise. Wimbledon is an affluent area and I would have thought that there would be plenty of comfortably off families who’d jump at the opportunity to buy a place like this. The huge garden, the masses of space, its proximity to the tube, everything screamed desirable.
“So Ms. Buchanan,” he continued. “What is this consortium that you represent and how do you happen to know about this house?”
This was a question I was not ready to answer and so I went on the offensive. “Why shouldn’t I know?” I batted back at him. “It’s on the market, isn’t it?”
“Of course,” his pale blue eyes narrowed. “It’s just that you don’t appear to be registered with us. There’s no For Sale board, for security reasons you understand and it’s not yet on our website.”
“One hears these things,” I trialled the idea. “Perhaps one of your staff?”
“Properties such as these are only dealt with by me, as I’m the manager.”
For a guy who could only be in his mid-thirties, his manner was pretty pompous. Not a characteristic I find particularly attractive in a man. Perhaps Laura hadn’t spotted it in him yet.
“Properties such as these?” I allowed a slight edge of enquiry to creep into my tone. I would like to have raised one eyebrow for added emphasis, but I can’t do so without making myself practically cross-eyed, so I resisted the temptation. He answered stiffly.
“It isn’t normal practice to leave houses of this size in the hands of junior staff.”
Pompous and prickly. It was time for me to be gone. Thankfully we had now reached the front gate and so I stuck out my hand. “I’m grateful for your time Mr. Napier.”
He shook it and immediately I turned to walk away. “But I don’t know how to contact you,” he protested.
I looked back over my shoulder. “Oh, I’ll be in touch.”
As I passed the BMW I took a quick look at the car registration number and committed it to memory. Once I was around the corner and well out of sight I broke into a jog, let myself in to the Renault, and made a note of the number. It was only when I started up the engine that I realised that I hadn’t asked him the price of the house. I thumped the palm of my hand down hard upon the steering wheel. I was such an idiot. I’d been so busy trying to look cool and in control, the kind of woman who brokers deals every day and is at ease in the world of money and property that I’d completely missed the most obvious point. Then suddenly a thought struck me. Why hadn’t he told me the price?
Any nerve-wracking situation invariably makes me hungry. What I wanted was cake. I would nip back up to the village, to Bayley and Sage, our local swanky delicatessen and pick up two pieces of lemon sponge. No I wasn’t being greedy (though I am often guilty of this); I was going to pop in on Flan.
Auntie Flan isn’t my real aunt but she had been Grandma P.’s best friend and near neighbour for over thirty years and that had earned her honorary status. Whilst Grandma P. had schooled me in practical matters, Flan had introduced me to the feminine world of clothes and cosmetics.
At eight years old I had sat beside her at her dressing table, avidly watching as she applied lipstick to her Cupid’s bow mouth and sweeps of rouge to her high cheekbones. I had yearned to look like her, like a film star. Now at seventy, she is still undeniably glamorous, with dark eyes bright with energy and enthusiasm, and hair originally chestnut but now cunningly low-lit with honey and caramel.
“Darling, I shall never allow myself to go grey, it’s so unbecoming.” She had a long lean frame to which age only lends elegance. I adore her.
She greeted me at the door dressed in loose purple trousers and a flowing, lilac silk shirt. “Clarry darling, how lovely. Come in.”
Fully made-up – I had never seen her otherwise – she looks marvellous and can still turn heads. She had never married but there is always a man in her life. Currently, she was enjoying the attentions of Mr. Harold Babcock, a retired undertaker and of Mr. George Huxton, a retired joiner and keen horticulturist. Between these two charming old gentlemen (I had met them both); there was a keen rivalry as Flan kept them in a permanent state of lovesick fervour fanned by the flames of jealousy.
Proffering my cheek for a kiss and the white cardboard cake box for inspection, I padded down the hall after her towards the kitchen.
“The kettle is already on. Now sit down and tell me all your news.” She busied herself taking the familiar blue Spode mugs and plates from the dresser and the milk jug from the fridge. She was of the generation that would never dream of pouring it direct from the carton. When the tea was ready and we had both taken our first mouthful of the moist lemony cake, I began my story to which she listened intently.
“I could tell straightaway darling that you were keyed up about something. You get a certain look in your eyes.”
This was interesting. Was I really so transparent? I guess I’ll never make a poker player. “What kind of a look?”
She ignored me. “So, you say he seemed unsettled by you?”
My mouth
full, it took me a moment to answer. “Well not necessarily by me, more by the fact of me. He was very keen to know how I knew about the house.” I broke off and put down my fork. “Something has just occurred to me. Something I didn’t register at the time. If other people have been shown around, other would-be purchasers, then why was there so much post blocking the door? Surely that much couldn’t have accumulated since it was last viewed? There was tons of it.”
“Yes, that does seem odd but I don’t see what that has to do with his feelings for Laura.”
I sat back in my chair. “I don’t know. Maybe nothing, but let’s think about it. If there is something funny going on with the house then that means… that means what?”
Flan crossed one purple clad leg over the other. “Who knows at this point? But that’s where we need to start, with the house. Because it’s all we have to go on.”
I paused with my mug half way to my mouth. “What do you mean we? Flan, you are not getting involved in this.”
She held up a placatory hand. “Clarry, someone needs to go into that estate agents and find out if the house is genuinely on the market and that person cannot be you, or Simon will recognise you. So who else can it be?”
She eyed me speculatively. I opened my mouth to protest and then closed it again.
CHAPTER THREE
Having spent some time checking the immediate side streets for any sign of Simon’s car, we pulled up on Wimbledon Hill just a little way up from the offices of Dunstan Stead. I hoped that he was still out, but it was possible that the BMW was a pool car, which meant it was now over to Flan.
I put a warning hand on her arm as she opened the car door to get out. “Now Flan, don’t overdo it. Act casual.”
She sketched a mock salute, then glided down the street and disappeared. I hate waiting at the best of times. I don’t do queues. No club, restaurant, or sale is ever that good. I fidgeted and inspected my face in the rear-view mirror, adjusting it to get a better look at my hair. Hmm, not bad, but a bit flat on top. I needed a trim and my highlights were beginning to look a little faded, but could last another week or two.
At last after nearly half an hour when I’d exhausted the contents of the glove compartment and earnestly studied an ancient A to Z to find out exactly where I lived, Flan reappeared. She looked very pleased with herself as she rapped on the window.
“Went like a dream Clarry. Such a nice young man and he had lovely teeth.”
“Who Napier?”
“No I asked for the manager but was told he was on appointments. I was looked after by a young man called Stephen Oakley. It’s rather a swish office dear, with flowers on the tables and even a couple of armchairs. Anyway, he sat me down to register me officially and then he tapped things into his computer about my requirements. I told him that I was only interested in houses in Woodside, Alwyn, or Compton Road, that I was very particular about it.”
“And,” I interrupted eagerly. “What did he say?”
But Flan, it was clear, wasn’t going to be rushed. She settled herself more comfortably in the passenger seat and continued, “I explained how it had to be big enough to accommodate me, my son and daughter-in-law and my three young grandchildren. I couldn’t remember how big you said the house was, but I thought that a woman of my age would want somewhere large enough to get away from all the noise children make. And not to mention toys left all over the place. There would probably be bicycles in the hallway and on the stairs where I could trip over and it simply doesn’t do to risk a fall at…”
“Flan!” I cut in urgently. “You don’t have any grandchildren, with or without bicycles!”
“That’s as maybe, but to be convincing it is imperative to believe in the story you are telling.” She looked at me reprovingly. “If you are going to take up this line of work you will do well to remember that Clarry. Do you know I’m sure that I would have made an awfully good detective? Is it too late for me to take it up now do you think? I wouldn’t have thought it was a job you would need a degree or to have passed exams for. It takes a clear head, a keen eye, and just the right amount of daring.” She broke off thoughtfully.
I put my head in my hands and groaned.
“So, I explained to the young man with the teeth that the cost was of no importance as my son is a very important man in the City. That he’d always been ambitious even as a small boy. That he’d worked hard at school, had handed in his homework on time…”
I now started to bang my head against the steering wheel, but she didn’t miss a beat.
“I told him that we didn’t mind whether the property needed redecorating, it’s the exact location we want. And…” she paused and as I looked up holding my breath, she flashed me a raffish smile. “And they definitely do not have anything in those three roads currently on the market!”
I exhaled loudly.
“He was most apologetic and promised that the minute something comes up he’ll be in touch. So obliging. He even offered me a cup of coffee but I explained how I never drink it as it’s so bad for the skin.”
Sparing a thought for poor Stephen Oakley, I kicked the engine into life and shot out into the lunchtime traffic to a trumpet of blaring car horns, as I all but collided with a black cab turning out from the station. Damn. I hadn’t returned the rear-view mirror back into position.
Flan, ignoring the bellows of abuse from the taxi driver buckled up her seat belt. “Perhaps I should have taken up the stage? When it comes to lying I’m a natural.”
After dropping her back to Lauriston Road, I headed for home. I needed to think. I’d sit down with a cup of tea and decide what to do next. Letting myself in, I pulled off my jacket and kicked off my heels. I filled the kettle and checked my mobile for messages. There were two; one from Dave, the manager at Abbe’s, confirming my shift for Wednesday evening and the other from Laura.
“I couldn’t sleep last night for wondering if this plan was just completely crazy. Actually I couldn’t work out who was the most deranged, me for coming up with it or you for agreeing to it?” She laughed a little breathlessly but excitement was there in her tone. “But Clarry, I woke up this morning certain in my mind that I was doing the right thing. I’m sure Simon’s motives are genuine and that you will find out only good things about him.” Her message ended with, “Bye love and thanks. You know I’m counting on you.”
Great. No pressure then. Trying to calm my thoughts, I made tea and sipped it at the kitchen table but it was no good, my mind was spinning. Should I phone her now and tell her what I know? But what did I know? Nothing really. I got up, too wired to sit still, and opened the back door to the garden. Still barefoot I stepped out on to the narrow path that skirts the edge of my small rectangular lawn.
The late afternoon sun shone brightly and the sight of a small cluster of primroses peeping shyly up through the grass to meet its gaze filled me with a sense of optimism and purpose. I realised that I hadn’t been out here for a few days and in that time there had been changes. The crocuses had faded out. The pink and blue hyacinths had died off; their long bitter green leaves flailing now that the heavy scented flower heads had dried. Daffodils still raised their sunny faces to the sky and the first of the forget-me-nots straggled their way along the raised beds and jostled for room with early budding wallflowers.
Grandma P. had loved this garden. She could be found out here at any time of the year, leaning over to pull up any stray weed that dared to force its way through her carefully tended beds. In summer, she wore a battered straw hat on her head and in winter, she wrapped herself up in an ancient brown overcoat with sleeves so long that they had to be rolled up. I think it had originally belonged to my grandfather.
Some of my earliest memories are of helping to deadhead the roses that clambered over the back fence and of watching her raking up scattered leaves from the lawn. I did my best to keep up with the garden because I loved it too. E
very time I snip off a few flower stems to arrange in one of her old glass vases, I can almost feel her smiling.
I looked down at the splash of pale yellow primroses; their velvet petals and furry leaves so precious because there were so few, and decided to leave them undisturbed. The forget-me-knots however, were going to get it. I snapped off a handful and headed back inside for the pale blue jug I keep under the sink. The quiet of the garden and the soothing action of arranging the spindly fragile stems had cleared my mind. I grabbed my keys, snagged an old sweatshirt from the coat rack, thrust my feet into a pair of trainers, and headed out the door. So what if I didn’t have a clue what I was doing? I would just have to make it up as I went along.
CHAPTER FOUR
Pulling the Renault into a space a few doors up from Dunstan Stead, I stuffed my hair up into an old baseball cap that had lain abandoned along the back window for months and hunkered down a little in my seat. I could see the BMW parked in a slip road next to the library. It was after five thirty; surely they’d be closing up sometime soon?
An hour later and I was beginning to wonder if they were ever going to shut up shop, when a middle-aged woman in a shirtwaist dress, came out to retrieve the open/closed board. Five minutes later, she and a young guy, possibly Stephen Oakley but I wasn’t near enough to catch a glimpse of his teeth, left together in the direction of the station. They hadn’t locked up so presumably someone was still in there. I didn’t have to wait long. Lights were turned out and there he was. Simon Napier. After performing some complicated operation with a large bunch of keys, he let himself into his car and drove off.
Allowing a couple of cars to get in front of me, I eased out into the traffic behind him. Now I’ve seen it in films and on TV of course, but actually following another car without drawing attention to oneself is no easy thing. There’s a lot of weaving in and out. The driver of a silver Toyota whose passenger side door I narrowly missed colliding with, probably thought that I was driving under the influence of drugs, alcohol, or mental impairment. This last may be close to the truth.