‘The local pub.’ Rule 24:Speak casually and familiarly about whatever you do know, and they’ll assume you know the rest.‘We didn’t know too much about his work, of course, but we knew he was important.’
‘Oh, yes. Yes indeed. He was the core of this place …’ Herlip wobbles again, but she pulls herself back. I think I see the way forward with her, though. Full crawling, full Davy-was-the-best, and see what she reveals.
So I continue: ‘I can’t think why anyone would want to murder him. He didn’t have an enemy in the world, not down where we were.’
‘No, dear. No indeed.’
‘It doesn’t make sense.’
‘Oh, I know, I know.’ She’s wringing her hands. I’ve never seen anyone actually do that before.
‘To be honest, it made me curious about who could possibly have wanted to. It wouldn’t have been anyone in Bridling. I wish I knew a little more about it.’
‘Of course, dear, of course. Although when you say he had no enemies … well …’ She leans forward suddenly, conspiratorial, and suddenly she’s a different woman – glancing around, ears attuned for any approaching footsteps, mouth framing the opening words of some really good gossip. ‘I can tell you this much …’
The moment doesn’t last, because a young Asian guy rounds the partition from the office proper, and within an instant she’s reverted again to her role of the grieving office widow. As I watch her transform, I realise she’s a magnificent actor. ‘Sami!’ she practically shouts. ‘You must meet Ted. Sami, Ted is a country friend of David.’
Sami is twenty-something – sharp suit, sharper beard, small stud in one ear – but beneath the youthful features he seems deeply tired. ‘Hello, Mrs P. Hello, Ted. You knew David, then?’
Before I can get my story out, ‘Mrs P’ turns back to me. ‘Where are my manners? I’m Hetty, I run the office here. Ted, Sami is one of David’s brilliant young men. David does – did – so much for the young people just starting out …’ The use of the past tense sets her off again – although given her extraordinary performance a moment ago, I have no idea if any of it’s real.
Either way, Sami says, ‘I’ll look after him, Mrs P,’ and gestures me through into the main office.
It’s decent, this place – the sort of place where you imagine millionaires buy their homes. Cream walls and carpet, fancy plaster mouldings on the ceiling, the occasional bit of disturbing plastic modern art between the desks. Most of the open-plan workstations are occupied by sleek young people. From just one look you can tell they have meal-box subscriptions, Zone 1 gym memberships, and airy studio flats with railings instead of wardrobes. The far wall is a row of private offices, with that sheet glass that you can turn opaque or transparent at the touch of a button. Harcourt and Wallace are doing all right for themselves. Well, half of them are, anyway.
One of the offices has its windows blacked out, and there’s a sad bunch of flowers wedged into the aluminium handle. In the next one along – currently transparent – is a big, broad man I recognise from the website – Rob Wallace, Davy’s co-founder. He’s the one I want to talk to next. But Sami has escorted me to his desk and gestured me casually to the client’s chair beside it, and I don’t want to arouse suspicion by abandoning him now.
‘Sorry about her,’ he’s saying.Cheeky boy, I think. If one of your colleagues of nearly four decades had died, you’d be in bits too. ‘She was a bit obsessed with Dave. They used to be a thing.’ He makes a disgusted face.
‘Wow. When?’
‘Dunno. I probably wasn’t alive; I think in the eighties or some shit.’ He grins, and I suddenly feel rather sorry for Mrs P, working with these jackals.
‘When she said David’s brilliant young men, what did that mean?’
‘Dave ran a mentoring scheme. Charity thing.’
‘Sounds good of him. What did it involve?’
‘Nothing really. Just taking on young agents from disadvantaged backgrounds for six months, then farming them out to other firms, but with experience of high-end clients, high-end properties, that kind of thing. We followed him around’ – Sami clearly has no problem at all with the past tense as far as his former boss goes – ‘and we said nothing, just observed. It was all right.’
I can’t picture Davy doing that voluntarily. He didn’t seem charitable to me during our brief acquaintance. ‘Sounds like good experience.’
‘Yeah. Although at the end of it most of his people went off to shit firms. Firms that do bad places, you know? Like, ninety per cent of lettings in the city, and about half the sales, all that.’
I think of the last few rental places I tried in London beforeI took up this line of work. ‘I know the sort you mean. Mould and rats?’
‘Yeah. Although I guess that’s normal. There isn’t enough prime resi in the city to get everyone jobs at agencies like this.’ I’d have said ‘to house the population’, but I guess when you’re an agent you see things differently.
‘You said “disadvantaged”. What was your background? Before you came here, I mean?’
Sami gives me a cryptic smile. ‘That’s classified.’ I smile back.
Looking around the office, most of the staff are subdued, although I can’t see any obvious signs of distress. It certainly doesn’t seem like the place has lost its beating heart. One person catches my eye, though, two desks away and facing us. He’s balding, bespectacled, and he looks more anxious than anyone else here. He’s reading some paperwork in great agitation – turning to his screen, back to the papers, not focusing on anything for more than three seconds.
‘Who’s that?’
‘That’s Tench. He’s the chief solicitor. Did all Dave’s cases.’
