by Tom Trott
He showed us into the living room first. The sofas were cream, the television modestly sized, the light fitting hidden by a dish of frosted glass against a textured white ceiling.
‘All the properties come with modern fixtures and fittings,’ he explained, gesturing to the thirty-two inch television and DVD player with no sound bar or separate speakers.
‘What a life saver,’ I remarked in the voice of someone who would say ‘gee whiz!’
He opened the doors to the pine unit the TV was perched on. ‘Hi-Fi system,’ he stated as he unveiled a CD player and speakers.
‘Wow!’ I added unconvincingly. He didn’t seem to notice.
Next, he showed us into the kitchen, pine panelled with mock-marble worktops and white appliances. No island, and no “American-style” fridge.
‘Coffee machine,’ he remarked with a gesture. It was a filter machine with glass jug and hotplate, the type you find in offices or Midwestern diners when you travel back in time.
‘Modern appliances.’ He gestured to the microwave and the all-in-one washer-dryer, coming off somewhat like the assistant on The Price is Right.
‘Garden view,’ he announced.
We looked out over another pristine strip of lawn, surrounded on all sides by garish flowers that could not be in bloom this time of year. They showed no signs of wilting, and must have been bought from a wholesaler and planted in the last few days. Interspersed with the flowers were spikey bushes; I wondered how many gnomes lurked within them and what they were plotting. Beyond the lurid borders were wooden fences that hid the rolling downs from this storey.
‘If you follow me upstairs I’ll show you the bedrooms and bathroom.’
We shuffled down the hallway and waited at the bottom of the stairs as he removed his shoes and placed them neatly under a radiator. He waited whilst we did the same.
In our stocking feet we climbed the narrow stairs and he showed us into the room opposite the top.
‘Office, with computer connections.’ He pointed to a pine desk against a wall where twin plug sockets and an Ethernet port sat just above the top. ‘This room could serve as a third bedroom, of course,’ he added, ‘or home gym,’ as though the idea had just come to him. ‘This room also has a garden view.’
‘Marvellous,’ Tidy chirped. I don’t think she had ever said the word before.
From the small window you could see beyond the garden, beyond the fences, onto the Downs, down into the valley, with the bypass silent to the side.
‘It’s amazing you can’t hear the traffic,’ I remarked.
‘That’s the windows,’ he gleefully explained, ‘triple-glazed, Swedish. Very efficient, they save you money on your energy bills too.’
‘Swedish? Not local then.’
The smile dropped from his face. ‘Sadly not.’ He trudged out of the room.
He led us next door to a twin bedroom also overlooking the garden.
‘Second bedroom, children or guests,’ he stated matter-of-factly, all previous bonhomie lost from his voice.
‘What did you do to him?’ Tidy whispered in my ear.
The room was pink, from the walls to the beds to the carpets.
‘It’s quite a bold colour choice,’ Tidy pointed out, trying to sound casual. ‘We might want to change it.’
‘This house is already sold, I’m afraid.’ He had his back to us, staring over the garden. ‘The family has two daughters, that’s why we outfitted the room in this style.’
‘Are the other houses the same as this?’
He turned from the window. ‘Much the same. We also have some two-bedroom properties under construction, if they would better suit your budget.’
‘Are you going to be offering any properties through a part-ownership scheme?’ I asked.
‘I’m afraid not, perhaps Downseat—’
‘That’s fine,’ I interrupted, beaming, ‘we don’t really want to live in that kind of neighbourhood, do we honey? So I just thought I’d check.’
He smiled, but there was no mirth in it. ‘I see. Let me show you the master bedroom.’
He led us from the room, past the only bathroom, and into a bedroom at the front of the house. It was slightly larger than the twin and the colour scheme this time was green and blue. The bed was a regular double, and mirrored wardrobes spanned the opposite wall.
‘How do you avoid affordable housing?’ I asked casually, ‘I thought every new development had to include a certain amount.’
‘If the reduced profit involved means a development would no longer be viable then affordable housing is no longer mandatory.’
I couldn’t help frowning, which then made my scalp sting, making me irritable. ‘Brighton is the most expensive place to buy property outside of London, surely any development is viable, half the market value is still twice the cost of construction. How did you swing it?’
‘You’re forgetting the cost of the land, we paid a pretty price. Believe me, we will not be making a killing from these properties. They are here to help the city, to help families, that’s why we take applications for sales.’
‘Applications?’ I asked.
‘That’s right, and we maintain the right to refuse a sale for any reason.’
‘What type of reason?’ Tidy asked.
‘We have no prejudices against race, of course.’ He smiled at her. ‘However, we would only sell to UK citizens, preferably with a significant local connection. Certain professions, certain pets, and other undesirable factors, and indeed desirable factors, would be taken into account. Good neighbours is what we want. You understand we want to build a neighbourhood here, a good neighbourhood.’
‘So the people moving into this house passed all your tests?’
‘With certain concessions, yes. The Anderson’s are wonderful people, he used to work for Médecins Sans Frontières. They’ll be great neighbours.’
‘When are they moving in?’ I asked.
‘Later this week, that’s why we’re working so hard to get things ready: there will be people from the television news.’
I scoffed.
‘Excuse me?’ He looked offended.
‘Why is it newsworthy, a family moving into a house?’
‘It’s the development that’s newsworthy.’
He turned his back on us in a huff, standing at a dressing table against the window, looking out, surveying his kingdom. The house next to this one and the two opposite were complete, a few doors down five men were fitting windows, further away we could hear drilling and groundwork.
‘I’ve been dreaming about this since I was a boy,’ he said under his breath.
‘Dreaming about what?’ I asked.
He paused for a moment, he hadn’t meant to think out loud. Eventually, with his back still to us, he explained: ‘When the Second World War ended an entire generation who had left home as young boys returned as men, now at the age where they wanted to have a career, get married, and start families. Britain was hardly unique in facing the question of how we provided the volume of housing needed for this rapidly expanding population. In America, William Levitt cleared huge swathes of land and built suburbs, thousands of houses, complete with driveways and gardens. He made them on a production line; standard, simple, and affordable. They could build a fully-fitted house in a day. They called the place Levittown, and he went on building Levittowns all over the country. Over here we built tower blocks, kept people cooped up in cages barely suitable for livestock. Levitt liberated returning veterans from cramped city apartments, and at a fraction of the cost they had been paying in rent. When I joined my father’s company I told him I wanted to build my own Levittown, he told me we built houses to make money. It was that simple. But now I’m in charge, and I’ve built my Levittown. Only I wouldn’t be so immodest as to put my name on it.’
He turned back to face us, without a smile, clearly ready to show us out.
‘That’s a very noble aim,’ I said before he had another chance to speak, �
�but Levitt’s houses were cheap, mass-produced, yours are expensive, how come?’
He frowned. ‘They are worth somewhat more, but Levitt’s houses only had to withstand the mild American climate, not the British weather, not the British cold, the British rain, hot dry air was all he had to contend with. I’ve been dreaming about this for thirty years, I at least want these to last longer than that.’
‘You can get decent flat-pack houses, I’ve seen them on TV, from Germany or Holland or somewhere. They send them over here in pieces, with the builders too, and they put them up in a day just like Levitt’s houses. And shipping containers too, I’ve seen people convert them into houses for the homeless, like Richardson’s Yard by Preston Circus.’
‘Yes, well, I hardly think that’s right for Downseat.’
He went to move past us, but I was in the way. ‘Why did you call it Downseat by the way?’
He sighed. ‘Because it sits at the seat of the Downs, or this “down” in particular.’
‘I see, not because it’s eating into the Downs.’
For a moment he looked as though I had slapped him in the face, but soon his face rested back into a sort of calm detachment used to disguise disdain.
‘I’ll take you to the site office now and we can get you the necessary forms.’
‘Actually,’ I held my hand up and stopped him walking past us, ‘we’re not interested in buying a house, even with a free Hi-Fi system. We just came to ask you some questions.’
‘Excuse me?’ He was pinned by the dressing table, there was no way out.
‘We’re journalists,’ Tidy explained, ‘writing an in-depth report on affordable housing.’
‘And how developments avoid their legal requirements,’ I added. ‘I think people will be very interested in Downseat.’
His eyes darted between us, he looked on the edge of panic. ‘I told you the land was expensive, we couldn’t afford affordable housing, especially with the quality of craftsmanship here. We’re really making a very small profit on these properties.’
I did my best journalist impression: ‘Mr Stevenson, how did you manage to get the council to approve building on an area of outstanding natural beauty?’
‘There’s nowhere else, the city has to expand!’
‘Take a lot of lobbying did it?’ Tidy asked before he had finished, ‘Backhanders, little brown envelopes?’
‘No!’
‘Just some then,’ I sneered, as I pulled out a notebook and pen.
‘No! No! The council saw the merit in the scheme, of course they did: the city needs houses.’
‘But you did hire lobbyists,’ I stated.
‘No! We’re house builders, not Big Pharma!’ He calmed down and his voice dropped an octave. ‘You’ll have to leave.’
‘We have a source that will confirm you hired this man.’ I showed him the same blurry photo from my phone.
‘No!’
‘Our source in the council was lobbied by this man,’ Tidy stated as a fact.
‘No! I despise lobbyists,’ he blabbered, ‘if an idea is good then any fool can see it. The only people who need lobbyists are those who know their idea is bad.’
‘Then someone else in your company must have hired him.’
‘I am the company. There is no one who can make that decision except me. And this is my project, I am in charge of it, it is the only one I manage directly. Who is your source in the council?’
‘You know we can’t reveal that.’
‘You journalists are all the same: lying, deceitful, only interested in bad news. This is a good news story. Mark my words: Downseat is a good news story.’
✽✽✽
‘I believe him,’ Tidy said as we climbed into the Kia, ‘but you could have gone a bit harder on him to be sure.’
‘I try to only do that to people who deserve it. So far I’ve found a worrying lack of bad people on this case, just people who mean well. It makes me worried I’m looking in the wrong place. Except Mr X,’ I corrected myself, ‘he didn’t mean well when he pistol-whipped me. He’s certainly dangerous, but right now I can’t figure out how he fits in.’
My phone vibrated with a message. It was Thalia:
“Andy called, Clarence’s car found in country lane near Cooksbridge. Forensics stripping it to pieces now.”
They wouldn’t find anything, I was sure of that. I kept my mind where it was:
‘Today’s unanswered question is “what the hell is that muddy patch in the field, and how and when did it get there?” And whatever it is, is it worth killing over?’
I looked over at her, she smiled back.
‘There is someone else we could talk to,’ I mused. ‘Want to come?’
14
The Light Shineth in Darkness...
Tidy said she had an appointment to keep that afternoon, something to do with the case that was keeping her in Brighton, so I dropped her off in town and then returned the way I had come. I drove back over the bypass, turned right, and then left up the single-track road. Over the potholes and shingle, past the wire fences and telegraph poles; then a curve to the right, down into the valley, sweep to the left; and the clump of trees are revealed ahead. I pulled over by a field entrance, leaving the road clear, still far enough out of sight.
As I marched the two-minute trek up the road all I could hear was wind. The green Downs rose up to the left, and to the right was the flat bottom of the valley where occasionally a bird would shoot up from the long grass. It was so quiet I could hear their wings flap. Above me was a rolling curtain of grey cloud, and the chasm between me and the curtain seemed a vacuum. Wisps of charcoal cloud weighed down with potential rain drifted across the vacuum, threatening to break at any moment. In front of me, just to the right of the road, was the clump of trees that hid the cottage. Impenetrable, I had thought, but it occurred to me that the world may be entirely visible from inside, like from a bird hide.
At last I reached the end of the not-quite-driveway. It was white gravel, and the silver Honda Jazz that had been parked on it last night was still there. In front of the cottage was a small overgrown garden thick with grass and weeds, and from in the thicket rose the head and shoulders of a concrete nymph now stained green and mottled. The cottage itself was two storeys high, panelled with wood that had been painted white sometime last century. Dead vines entwined the window frames and the white paint had split and peeled. Moss burst from the panel gaps, growing like mould on bread; and the green and brown marks the rain had caused bled down from window to window.
I couldn’t see any lights on, but it was only a dim afternoon. Weeds had grown up half the height of the front windows and there would be no way to peer inside without parting them and revealing myself. Instead I took a tentative step onto the gravel of the driveway, the crunch deafening, and slowly approached a small window on the side of the house. It was almost above head height and I had to stand on tiptoes to get a decent view. It looked in on a staircase, which disappeared up to the right. The carpet was old and worn, and a stairlift was bolted through it. Down to the left I could just see a small sliver of the hallway and into a living room. There was a feeble lamp on, but all it did was light the yellowed shade. On the only visible strip of wall was a faded landscape print in a dark wooden frame, the wallpaper around it was rippled and bubbled with age and poor-workmanship, the paint of the doorframe was chipped and sloppy.
‘What the hell are you doing!?’ a raspy voice screeched.
I got down from my tiptoes and turned to see a man standing by the corner of the house. He looked about four feet high, and was leaning on a walking frame. He wore baggy trousers, a grey vest, and a heavy blue cardigan. Huge glasses obscured his face and made his eyes as large as golf balls. White hair curled out of his liver-spotted scalp, chin, ears, and nose. A beige hearing aid straddled each long ear, which seemed to stretch from his temples to his neck. He had little sharp teeth, and they were bared at me now like a ferret’s.
‘I’m so
rry,’ I apologised.
‘What!?’ he shouted.
‘I said, I’m sorry!’ I shouted as loud as he had.
‘This is my house, young man, what do you think you are doing?’
I smiled my most charming smile.
‘Wait a minute,’ he said, intending to point a bony finger at me, but instead it was so twisted the tip pointed several metres to the left of me, ‘I recognise you.’
I puffed out my chest.
‘You did that TV show.’
I un-puffed my chest.
‘You went around old people’s houses looking for antiques,’ he dismissed me with his hand, ‘I haven’t got anything I want to sell.’ He turned and shuffled out of sight round the corner.
Uncertain, I crunched back down the driveway and round the corner to the front of the house. The door was open. Not fully open, but enough to let in a draft. It was heavy wood and looked like the sort of door that would stick on the sill. I pushed it open and stepped into the dark hallway. A television blared from the living room.
I moved past it and poked my head into the kitchen. There were only about a day’s worth of dirty cups. Nothing had been deep-cleaned in a while, but the surfaces had been wiped recently. There was nothing remarkable about the kitchen; mismatched glassware, patterned crockery, a stepladder: what you would expect from an old person, nothing more. There was another room on this floor, I poked my head in that too. It was a sort of office, I guessed, it had bookshelves and a desk, but the majority of the room was taken up with a large train set, now hidden under a dustsheet. I headed back toward the sounds of the television, and walked quietly but casually into the tiny living room.
It was dark, half the window overgrown by the weeds, and the lamp doing nothing. The pink nylon carpet was covered in crumbs and fluff, and the peach rug was even worse. Cloudy glass cabinets held faded photographs in silver frames. A carriage clock and a grandfather clock told different times, both of them wrong. The air was musty, as though the residents no longer had the strength to open windows.