‘I’m the owner.’ He doesn’t sound terribly sure.
‘Fuck off you’re the owner. My boyfriend owns this place. And you’re not him.’ She gives a little wobble, just the kind you might show if you were the unacknowledged kept woman of a senior estate agent who had been murdered and now your very livelihood was under threat. That sort of wobble.
‘Listen, madam, I’m with the authorities, and—’
‘Authorities? Get to shit. You haven’t got a warrant, that much is clear. Are you a fuckingjournalistor something?’ To be clear, this guy would make the least convincing newspaper journalist since Clark Kent. He looks like his sole reading matter is the manuals of small, expensive German firearms,or niche CIA magazines with titles likeEnhanced Interrogation Quarterly.
But Em has evidently decided that’s the most palatable interpretation she could make to get this guy out of the room, so she goes on. ‘You are, aren’t you? You’re a bloody tabloid rat. Well you can just get out. First my boyfriend is murdered and now you worms have to come in and snoop around … Just get out, all of you. Get out. You too, cleaners. Go on. Out.Out!’
This last word is thrown at us in a key and register I didn’t know Em had in her. She’s unstoppable. And before we know what’s going on, the three of us are standing in the corridor, and she’s slamming the door behind us, her face streaked with tears.
There’s a pause, as we all recalibrate in the light of what’s just happened. I’m the first one to speak.
‘We clean next place now.’
And I drag Jonny away to the neighbouring flat, where he busies himself fiddling with the entry keypad while I rearrange our cart. Bowling Ball looks at us for a few seconds, and then decides we’re not worth the effort. Either that, or he’s too embarrassed about what just happened to attempt a second questioning. Whatever the reason, after a final baleful look he stalks away down the corridor towards the posh lifts, and I breathe freely for the first time in about three minutes.
‘Jeeeesus.’
Jonny gestures back along the corridor. ‘Shall we go and see Em?’
‘No. She’ll join us when she can. Let’s just get out.’
As we’re walking back to the service lift, another thought strikes me.
‘Jonny. What happened to the ledger? The one I gave you in there with the addresses in?’
‘I dropped it.’
‘What? Where?’
He grins, and reaches into his bin bag.
About five hours later, we’re back in Balfour Villas, finishing an unbelievable stir-fry courtesy of Jonny. I didn’t think people actually made stir-fry except the stuff the supermarkets sell pre-prepared. I should learn to cook, I think, before dismissing the thought as ridiculous. Interlopers don’t cook.Why not?I turn my attention back to our two finds from the afternoon.
‘A laptop and a ledger,’ I say.
‘Hope they’re worth it,’ says Em. ‘That thug has seen my face now.’
Em joined us an hour or so ago, having skulked in Davy’s flat all afternoon. She managed to get in by informing the receptionist that she was the PA of the resident in flat 227 and she had been notified of a breach in security by his internal security systems. God knows how convincing she would have had to be to get through on that lie, but the receptionist bought it and it worked. As for why she did it … she was waiting outside the building and saw Mr Bowling Ball heading in. I’ve been too embarrassed to thank her properly so far, because what can you say to someone who’s just saved you from an agonising death?
‘Seriously,’ says Elle, ‘can’t we just report this guy to the police?’
‘And say what? “Yes, this man is following us, we recognise him because he’s been chasing us since the morning after the murder. What’s that, officer? Why’s he after us in particular? Well, we were in the building when Mr Harcourt was shot, you see. No, we didn’t have anything to do with it, we were just … Hey, why are you handcuffing me?”’
Em gives me an annoyed look, but she doesn’t disagree. ‘Let’s look at the properties on the list.’
‘They’re all classy, as far as I can tell. Barely a double-digit postcode among them. Must have been sales Davy made.’
‘Al, did you say something about the register?’
‘Registry. The Land Registry will show who owns all these places. Let’s have a look.’
Jonny opens up his laptop, gets us secure access, and starting from the top, we look up the list of properties. By the fifth one down, a pattern emerges.
Arthurian Capital
Sid Wayne MNP
