The Love Detective

by Angela Dyson

  He nodded and casting one more glance at the house, set off towards the main road. We walked in silence, which we didn’t break until we were sitting opposite each other at a small table hedged in by the pushchairs and strollers of a posse of Yummy Mummies who had monopolised all the sofas. At the counter I had instinctively offered to pay for our lattes and he had accepted. I’ve never liked mean men.

  “So, what’s going on Simon?”

  “What do you mean?” his voice was flat, his habitual pomposity all but evaporated. He looked a little peaky under his tan. I leant forward across the narrow table and gazed into his eyes. They were the kind of pale blue that in some lights appear to be grey and I suppose many women would have found them attractive. I didn’t.

  “Simon, listen to me please. I, or I should say the consortium I represent, want that house. The offer we’ve made is a good one and…”

  He made as if to interrupt but I deflected. “Yes, I know you’ve said that it’s no longer available…” I put a teasing stress on the words and smiled warmly, hoping to take some of the sting out of what I was about to say. “I think the real situation is that you’ve had an offer from another party who have made it worth your while to carry the deal through.”

  He said nothing but abruptly pushed back his chair and made as if to get up.

  “Relax, why don’t you?” I soothed, leisurely lifting my latte for another sip. He hesitated and I ploughed on making sure to keep my voice low and caressing. “You’re clearly an ambitious man Simon. I saw that the minute I met you. Here’s a guy, I thought to myself, who thinks big. He won’t be content to stay managing a small agent like Dunstan Stead for long. He’s got the talent and the drive to branch out. Perhaps set up his own agency or become a developer?”

  I took a breath wondering if I was laying it on too thick, but as a look of dawning complacency lit up his features, I knew I had him. Never underestimate the male ego I thought. “And I can see by the way that you dress that you like to live large, to play hard.” Visions of his rack of designer shirts flashed across my mind. “And that takes money, doesn’t it?” I had his full attention now. “And it’s sweeteners that make the business world go around, wouldn’t you agree?”

  He gave a slight nod of acknowledgement.

  “So, the question is; how big a sweetener are we talking?”

  I leant back in my seat regarding him. I’d done. He would either take the bait or he wouldn’t.

  He looked down at his cup and then up in to the middle distance and then back down to his cup. I curbed my impatience, reining in the desire to reach out my foot under the table and kick him hard in the shins until, at last, it was clear that he had reached a decision. A look of calculation flickered across his face.

  “To be able to secure your bid I would need a cash deposit of £25,000 and then the balance of £25,000 when the deal’s done.”

  I had to force myself from reacting. I had no idea we were talking about so much money. I thought of the £200,000 investment he’d made through Lehman Black and wondered how many similar deals he’d done to put aside that kind of money. This man had to be stopped I decided. And it wasn’t just about Laura. I had no idea how I was going to do this but I had to try. Play it out I told myself and see what develops.

  “And if we agree?” I asked. “What guarantee would there be after the initial payment?”

  He flashed me a broad frank smile. “My word of course.”

  Right, I thought. That’s a real clincher. Really, I couldn’t work out which one of us was lying to better effect.

  “But of course.” I allowed myself a slight laugh. “I’m sure that we can come to an agreement on this Simon. I’ll get back to you soon. Give me your mobile number.”

  He did so and I rose from my chair holding out my hand to him, although the contact made me want to recoil.

  “Looking forward to hearing from you Gemma.” His grip was firm. “Oh, one other thing… all deals are off if that thug isn’t removed from the premises.”

  I blinked in surprise. “What?” I stammered. “What do you mean?”

  “What I say,” he replied coolly. “Get rid of him and then we can do business.”

  “But how on earth?”

  “That’s up to you and your client to arrange. Got to rush, I have another appointment.” And with that he backed out from the table, edged past the baby strollers and headed for the door. I sat back down heavily in my seat.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Twenty minutes later I walked back up the hill and turned into Alwyn Road.

  “Change your mind then didja Blondie?”

  “I… um… was wondering if I could talk to you?”

  Scary Bloke regarded me impassively and then shrugged. “Glad to see you dumped the Stiff.” He held the door open for me “After you then love.”

  I hesitated, but steeled myself and walked on into the house. I crossed the hall into the main sitting room and immediately spotted signs of occupation: a couple of bulging bin liners, bundles of clothes, and two shabby looking sleeping bags on the floor. Stepping over towards the French windows at the far end of the room where I noted that a piece of cardboard had been tacked up at a broken glass pane, I found that Scary Bloke had followed close on my heels.

  I cleared my throat thinking that it would be safer to get him talking but nothing came out. The words seemed to have clotted in my throat. Scary Bloke was getting impatient.

  “So, whatcha want?”

  “Well… I’m… I’m interested in buying this house. That was the estate agent you met earlier and he was just about to show me round again when…”

  This got a reaction. Folding his arms which I noted were curiously too short for his overall size, he laughed in my face. “Forget about it. You won’t want it at any price by the time we’ve finished with it.”

  “Why? What do you mean?”

  He thrust his face a little nearer to mine, presumably never having received the memo about invading another’s personal space, and glared at me suspiciously. “I got a little set up here and I ain’t looking for no interference, right?”

  “Right,” I nodded emphatically. “Yes of course. Absolutely.”

  Unfolding his arms again and visibly relaxing at my show of respectful attention, he looked me up and down appraisingly. “The thing is, I’m kind of a businessman, see?”

  I nodded again, although I didn’t see at all.

  Just as in our earlier encounter, he had adopted an oddly confiding tone and the change in style and pace was unnerving. Shifting his weight more comfortably, he now had his back to the main door and was effectively blocking me in. I forced myself to smile encouragingly. “I make things happen, I’m what you might call a fixer. The thing is I…”

  Whilst concentrating on displaying a sincere and rapt interest, I risked a quick glance behind him, scanning the room for any means of escape. It seemed an awfully long way to the hall. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a slight movement. A pale girl with a mass of long dark hair was peeping around the door and listening intently to the conversation. Our eyes met and then she disappeared back into the gloom of the hall. Anxiously I brought my gaze back to Scary Bloke but he appeared to have noticed nothing and was becoming expansive in his volubility.

  “Yeah, this is part of what I call my going concern,” he explained. “I haven’t got an office or nothing but I’m still what you might call an ontonpreneur.”

  “Right,” I said. “Like Richard Branson.”

  “Exactly. Richard Branson. I organise accommodation, deluxe accommodation.” He sniggered and looked at the sleeping bags.

  “You mean like an agency?”

  He actually took the question seriously and cocked his head to one side as he carefully considered his answer. He appeared to be enjoying the exchange. Perhaps he rarely had a chance to dazzle a woma
n with his achievements.

  “Well Blondie, not exactly.” He gave the stud in his tongue a thoughtful twist, and he was, regrettably, still close enough for me to notice that flossing was not part of his morning routine. “I find an empty place and arrange tenants.”

  Now I was getting it. “And you charge them rent?”

  “Like I said, I’m a businessman.”

  “But this house isn’t yours,” I said without thinking “You can’t just…”

  I’d gone too far. All the danger signs were back. His eyes narrowed, his posture changed.

  “I can do anything I want. And I think you’d better clear off now.” His voice was low. “I’m beginning to wonder about you.”

  “Fine. Yes,” I squeaked. “I’ll just be going. Right now is good for me.”

  He was still blocking me in and so cautiously I edged around him and backed slowly and deliberately away, all the while being very careful to maintain eye contact. Each step felt like a mile but at last I reached the hallway. Turning, I wrenched open the front door and then with an absurdly bright, “Bye then,” I catapulted my way out of the building.

  I made my way unsteadily to the car, locked myself in, rested my head back against the seat, and patted my chest. It felt like a troupe of out-of-sync flamenco dancers were practising that foot stamping thing they do, against my rib cage. Christ, I thought, I’m having some kind of seizure. It took some minutes before I could think clearly.

  What was going on at that house? If I’d ever stopped to think about it I guessed that I’d sympathise with squatters presuming that they had no other choice available to them. Perhaps they, for any number of reasons, had run away from home or couldn’t afford to rent and so they took over a long abandoned property? It would beat living on the streets. But I had no idea that there were people out there who actually made a profit from the practice.

  Was the girl with the dark hair working with Scary Bloke or was she one of his tenants? My thoughts tumbled over themselves. And how did Scary Bloke happen on this particular house? How did he know it was empty? Perhaps he simply kept a look out in the area and was ready to take over at short notice any property where there was no sign of life? But somehow that just didn’t sound likely.

  I moved the car to a few doors up from the house and settled down to wait. I wanted to talk to that girl and there was no way I could do that with Scary Bloke on hand. I would just sit here and keep my eyes open. One of them was bound to come out at some time or other. If it was the girl then I’d give chase and catch up with her in the street and if it was Scary Bloke, I’d wait until he was out of sight and then bang on that door until she answered. A good plan I decided.

  But by one o’clock there was no sign of either of them. Take it as a sign I told myself, a sign to give up, go home, and mind your own bloody business. I cast one last look at the house. Someone was opening the gate. It was the girl and she was heading out towards Wimbledon Hill. Not taking my eyes off her, I let her get a hundred yards away and then pulled the Renault out and followed at a distance. As she approached the main road, I crawled up behind her and remaining in first gear but with my foot on the clutch pedal, wound down the car window.

  “Hey,” I hailed her. She turned at the sound, looking about her for the disembodied voice. “It’s me,” I called, letting her get a good look at my face. “I just saw you in the house. I need to talk to you.”

  I saw the start of recognition in her eyes but she shook her head and started walking.

  “I just want to ask you some…”

  She was young, maybe not even eighteen and she was thin. Even in the baggy tracksuit bottoms and T-shirt she wore, I could see the fragility of her bones. Her long dark hair was heavy and unkempt and flared wildly around her face, emphasising the sharp contours of her features.

  “Just leave me alone.” Her voice was flat, but well-modulated and seemed at odds with her appearance.

  “Look, please, give me a few minutes, will you?”

  She shook her head and glared at me with obvious mistrust.

  “I tell you what,” I called. “I’m just going to grab a sandwich and a coffee in the village. Come and have one with me… my treat.”

  Even as the words came out of my mouth, I could see that she had read me completely wrong and had taken offence at what I assumed she considered a patronising attempt to ingratiate myself.

  “You can’t buy me with the offer of a sandwich,” she spat.

  I laughed but was a little taken aback at her hostility. I wasn’t being patronising I just wanted to talk to her. What was her problem?

  “Of course, not,” I said. “It’s obvious to me that it would take the promise of cake, or at the very least chocolate, to do that. A sandwich would never do it in a million years.”

  She looked at me, unsure what to make of that, but after a weighty pause as I held her gaze, she at last gave a reluctant smile.

  I leant over and opened the passenger door. “Hop in quick because I’m starving.”

  After another brief moment of hesitation, she nodded and clambered in as I shifted the gears into second and turned right out on to Wimbledon Hill.

  “I’m Clarry by the way, and best to buckle up,” I advised. “I’m a lousy driver. If I told you how many times it took me to pass my test, you’d probably rather fling yourself out into oncoming traffic than venture the half mile up to the Village with me.”

  As if to add emphasis to my words, the driver of a white van on my right, took exception to my distracted but exuberant style of lane filtering and let out a volley of abuse from his opened window, treating us to a series of graphic and unmistakable hand gestures.

  “See what I mean? What’s your name?”

  “Melanie,” her tone was wary.

  We pulled up outside a café in the centre of the village. Most lunchtimes it’s almost impossible to get a table outside, but an elegant middle-aged lady in an immaculately tailored dress was just gathering up her carrier bags to depart.

  “Grab it,” I said and Melanie didn’t stop to argue.

  I parked and then joined her just as the waiter, Ahmed, came up to take our order.

  “Hey Clarry. How are you? How’s that machine holding up?”

  “Ahmed and I are old friends,” I explained, introducing him to Melanie.

  “I work at Abbe’s a restaurant a few doors down and Ahmed here rescued me one lunchtime recently when our icemaker went on the blink. I had a party in from the local Rotary club who threatened to beat me with the minutes of their triplicate copied agendas if I didn’t supply them with perfectly chilled gin and tonics.”

  Melanie laughed and as she did so her thin face lit up.

  “So, what are you having?” asked Ahmed waving menus at us.

  “The Middle Eastern salad with chicken, please,” I answered, handing him back the menu unread. “And that special iced tea you do.”

  “That sounds good,” said Melanie “Is that OK? What you said about treating me?”

  “Of course,” I responded with all the unconcern of a woman who, this month, would only be paying the minimum amount off her credit card bill.

  Our iced teas arrived and I examined her, not sure quite how to begin. “There’s plenty of great cafés and bars around here, do you know the area?”

  She put down her glass. “No, not really. We’ve only just moved here. I’m from Winchester originally.”

  “We?”

  “Ted – my boyfriend – and me.”

  Although I didn’t really think it could be Scary Bloke, I had to ask. “Is that the guy I just met?”

  She laughed. “God no. No way. That’s Gary. And I can’t imagine anyone wanting to be with him.”

  “Nor me. Who is he then?”

  “I don’t know really. We met him in Brixton a week ago when we were looking for somewhere to l
ive.” She looked at me from under her eyelashes. “We needed somewhere we could afford, somewhere really cheap.”

  She paused and I was on the verge of jumping in with a dozen questions when I suddenly remembered watching an interrogation scene in one of those American TV cops shows Flan had talked about. The detective had allowed the suspect to tell his story at his own pace and it got results. I suppose most of us babble on a bit when confronted by the reserve of another. Those little silences can be awkward, embarrassing even and I was hoping that now, with the help of the iced tea and the chicken salad, Melanie would be feeling comfortable enough with me to talk. She was and she did.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Waitressing is hard on the feet and even tougher on illusions, especially if you have ever had a fantasy of the perfect dinner date. If only diners would follow these simple rules, they and we would have a much better experience:

  *Book a table and arrive on time.

  *Don’t de-head the flower arrangement or pick at the candle wax.

  *Don’t ask and then order what the waitress recommends. You will only get leftovers or something perilously close to its use-by date.

  *Don’t ask for something that’s not on the menu. If it’s not on there, then we don’t want you to have it.

  *Complain, if you really must, but make sure it’s in a polite manner if you’d rather not have your pudding dredged with the pastry chef’s dandruff, or your piece of steak tenderised by a kick-around in the kitchen.

  *Do not scream at the top of your voice and, with the violent threat of taking your custom elsewhere, if the waitress “accidentally” pours gravy in your lap. She clearly has been driven to desperate measures by your boorish over-familiarity and is longing for you to sod off and annoy her competitors down the road.

  *Depart before eleven pm and always leave a good tip.

  Ignore these tips and you face the threat of a severe case of food poisoning, or of being subject to an assault with flying kitchen knives from a chef upset by your request for a bottle of ketchup on the side. Follow them to the letter and you will be the perfect customer and have done virtually all you can to guarantee that you and your meal won’t be sneezed upon, spat in, or otherwise interfered with.