‘We do know Mr Harcourt wanted to tell the police something important.’
Her eyes widen. ‘Oh, Dave, you silly sod. What did you get yourself into?’
‘And he wanted protection for you, the police think. You and Lulu.’ She stays quiet at that. It seems to hurt her more than anything.
‘Charli,’ says Em, ‘did Mr Harcourt ever mention Nevis to you?’
‘Mention? We went a lot.’
‘Did he ever suggest he might have financial interests there?’
‘Apart from the house? I don’t think so.’
Em and I look at each other.
‘The house?’
30
Three hours later, I’m on the bus.
It’s one of the services out of Victoria, heading south and west. Spare seats all around me; there’s CCTV on here, but I’m masked to the eyeballs. I wonder if Em and Elle’s super-recogniser sister, Claudia, can get people just from the eyes. There’s probably an elite tier who can do that.
Charli told us a bit more before we left. Here are the headlines:
Charli and Davy used to have a house in Nevis. They went every year, and then six years ago Davy sold it. Their marriage had ended the year before and neither of them especially wanted it, so they flogged it and split the proceeds. In many ways it seems to have been a model divorce. Except:
Charli definitely didn’t know about the Battersea flat. When they split up, Davy got the main residence in the Cotswolds – unusual, but Charli was well set up due to her own financial arrangements (family money?) and she had never wanted to live out in the countryside. That had always been Davy’s thing more than hers. She had no desire to join the squirearchy and found the social scene there under-stimulating (her exact words were ‘some of these people literally look like they’re half pumpkin’.) Anyway, we told her about the flat – maybe he owned that offshore too? – so that was another unwelcome surprise to her. He owed her a lot of support money, which he was reliably paying – money she won’t get any longer.
Charli knew nothing about her husband’s business during their marriage. Occasionally he’d tell her about an especially interesting property, but she was content for him to leave his work in the office with ‘all those grotty young people’. She had a hunch he was shagging some of his mentees, too, although I have to say we haven’t found any evidence for that.
She says she always liked Rob Wallace, but that she had no idea what he might be capable of. Ben Westcott sounded quite personable when we listened at the Balham Brats meeting – certainly nicer than Conor Vane, the MP, or Jay Hawthorne, the police officer – but Charli assures us that Westcott is dodgy as.
And that was it. We left the gallery, came back to the Villas, and discussed our next move with the others. And now, the bus.
We’ve been going for a few hours and the road is down to one lane, plus passing places. The last half-hour I’ve seen nothing but fields, plus the faint scent of crops with notes of manure. I don’t like the countryside and I’ve missed lunch. I’d kill to see just one Leon.
Ding-ding. Here’s my stop. I’m the only one to get off. The coach pulls away, and I’m left in total silence. I take off my mask. No CCTV here.
I’m on the outskirts of the town. If you don’t mind, I won’t name which one. It’s a small place, and I’d like to reserve the option to go back one day. I can smell the sea, which is a nice change from rural mulch.
This bit of town is a microscopic high street: to a normal high street what a bonsai is to a redwood. There’s a fish and chip shop, Almighty Cod, which was always so cheap that it was assumed to be a front organisation for something or other, but it’s so run-down that the criminal masterminds behind it are also clearly on their last legs. There’s a pub, the Dirty Den, with ripped seats and a sign promising ‘48 hours of football a day’ (they have a second telly). There are three charity shops occupying the storefronts of what used to be a butcher’s, a baker’s and a Blockbuster. And there’s a vapeshop, with a banner proclaiming it to beBritain’s #1 Vape Experience.
It’s the middle of the day and there aren’t many people around, but there are still enough for me to be sweating. If anyone recognises me and says hi, I think I might run.
I turn off the high street. Here, far enough back to have no sea view at all, we have row after row of 1930s semis that, to everyone’s disappointment, the Luftwaffe missed. Then the gaps shrink until the semis become a terrace; eventually, across a few more roads and a scrubby green, there’s a block of flats, towering above the other buildings. It’s cheap-built and badly clad. It looks deserted, and thank Almighty Cod for that, because if I’ve timed it right, Flat 204 should be empty today, and the resident will be the same one who was living here when I last visited.
Getting into the building is easy enough. I have a heavy bag, and all I have to do is linger outside, going through it as if for my keys, until someone opens it on their way out: a young mum with a pram, happy for the assistance down the steps from door to street. She buzzes me back in when I explain I’ve forgotten my keysagain, but looks at me as if my features are familiar, so I hurry on in.
Second floor, up two flights of cheap stairs; I bet the people living next to the stairwell hear everyone coming and going. Fire exit signs, linoleum tiles on floor and ceiling, neon lights.
Rule 5 again:Never go back to the scene of a previous interlope. I’m about to break it for the second time in three days.But my Hail Mary, Rule 99, will excuse me here:To save your skin, break any of the above rules.
I’ve been leaning on Rule 99 rather heavily of late.
Here we are. Flat 204 is slightly off the main corridor, in the T-shape at the end of the building, so I’m not totally exposed, but it’s still going to take me ten minutes to get in. I saw from the street that the blinds were down, which was encouraging. Even so. Plus, I’m at the end of the corridor. If Mr Bowling Ball turns up there’s nowhere to go except out of the window, and I don’t fancy the drop. Not that it’s him I’m worried about today.
I knock hard, then retreat round the corner and listen. A minute later, nobody has opened the door, so I’m safe to approach. I squint into the gap – the deadlock is on. Downside: more work. Upside: greater chance there’s nobody home.
