The street name is a bit of a misnomer; this whole area is seriously nice. It probably got its name back in the 1600s when an immensely wealthy aristocrat kept his hunting dogs on site, or when the fourth Lady Buckingham decreed the place was such a pigsty she wouldn’t even keep her spaniels there. It’s come up in the world since then.
The area is full of the tall terraced buildings that housed high society three centuries ago, and that are now offices for all the dubious businesses that keep high society afloat today. It’s west of Harley Street, north of Oxford Street. Kennel Row itself is a tiny spur off the main road. It’s a cul-de-sactoo – meaning, of course, the office probably has no back door, or not one that would allow a quick exit.
The lack of an escape route is just one of the things making me uncomfortable right now. The others are, in order:
1) My shirt. Em has forced me through John Lewis and into something smart, saying it would only be appropriate for a young man turning up to convey his condolences for an industry giant.
2) The bunch of flowers under my arm, with half the label still glued to the cellophane. They’re white, but tulips seem a bit jolly for a death.
3) Em, who is sitting at my right elbow. She is half helping me prepare, and half making sure I don’t abscond. There’s no need for the second role. I’m well aware I’m going to have to be a joiner-in for a few days more.
‘The TV crew has gone, at least. I glanced in as we walked past and there’s no sign of them.’
‘Perfect. The less attention on me, the better.’
‘You ready?’
‘A bit nervous. I’m normally the only person in the buildings I get into. And if someone else turns up, I take evasive action.’
‘None of this fretting. You’ll be fine.’ She takes our empties to the bin and comes back. ‘Also, if you can’t do this, nobody can. Seems like you know the property industry best out of allof us. You’ll work out how to find out what was going on with our man Davy. Or see if anyone in the office is shouting about how they’re glad they did it and he got what was coming to him.’
‘Very funny.’
I give Em one last baleful look and head round the corner to the London office of Harcourt and Wallace.
Kennel Row is high and narrow, and still cold in the shadows at this time of year. As I enter, a hideous sculpture of an enormous, distended copper eye watches me approach. Cameras everywhere, too. If anyone’s looking for evidence I’ve been here – I think of Mr Bowling Ball from yesterday – they won’t have to look for long.
The office itself is going to be old-fashioned, you can tell that even from street level. At the brass plate of buzzers, I mumble something about condolences and wave my flowers at the lens, trying to obscure my face.
My performance for whoever’s at the other end of the camera seems to convince, because the door clicks. The hall is clean and distinguished; marble underfoot, and a lift that must be a century old. It’s one of the ones where you have to press the button, haul open a normal wooden door, slide the grille back, press the button, close the door, haul the grille again, and risk losing a hand, all for the dubious pleasure of standing in a box the size of a coffin as it moans and judders upwards.
After roughly three minutes of gentle ascent, I’m on the fifth floor, and after one more door, I’m in Dead Man Davy’s workplace.
This bit is an antechamber. The rest of the office – which looks like it occupies the whole floor of the building – is on the other side of a partition wall. This section has a desk, with a woman sitting at it, and she looks rather pleased to see me for some reason. Maybe she just likes the flowers.
‘Can I help you?’
I let a bit of countryside into my accent. ‘I’m here for Mr Harcourt. Well, not here for him. I’m sorry, I’m a bit flustered …’ I genuinely am, so I may as well acknowledge it. This isn’t the sort of environment my cover would be happy in either.
‘That’s all right, dear. We’re all upset today.’ She must be a few years older than Davy was, somewhere in her early sixties. She’s quite mumsy – strong cashmere vibes – but she’s also clearly in mourning, because she’s dressed top-to-toe in black. I wonder whether she saw the news before picking her clothes this morning. More likely, they got word about Davy’s death yesterday. The cops would have contacted the office and any next of kin before they released the news to the press. That’s a point, I think – the TV report didn’t mention any family. Another thing to find out here.
‘How did you know David?’ The woman gestures at a vase – she’s already lined up half a dozen on the desk, three of which are full – and I busy myself putting the flowers in there. ‘Oh, dear, you haven’t done this before, have you? Let me.’
As she takes them off me, shears the cellophane with an inch-long nail and gets arranging, I look at the other bouquets.Always – C, which is tied to a sumptuous bunch oflilies.Regards Dave from the Balham Brats, which is on a petrol-station bunch of wilting daisies and gerberas. And finally, appended to the biggest, most ostentatiously mournful bouquet of the lot,SORRY FOR YOUR LOSS DAVID. I check the label: Foxtons.
‘Sorry, how did you know him? I hope you don’t mind my asking. We’ve had two journalists try to get in already.’
‘How awful,’ I say. God, I hope they didn’t try the line I’m about to. ‘My name’s Ted. I know him from the village – Bridling, I mean. We used to play tennis together.’
‘You came all this way just to see us?’
Don’t push it. ‘Oh, I was in town anyway. But I saw it on the news this morning … I couldn’t believe it.’
‘I know. I know, dear. I’ve been here with him since the start. We went through so much, and now this …’ She looks like she’s about to cry. Whatever Davy’s crimes might have been in life, this woman had clearly forgiven him or never known about them. ‘I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.’ She gets out an actual lace handkerchief and starts dabbing her eyes.
‘No, I’m the one who’s sorry. He was a wonderful man. We didn’t see much of him in the village, what with his work, but he was always popular at the Head.’
‘The Head?’
