by Angela Dyson
Simon was an aggressive driver. Sweating under my cap, I concentrated on keeping the BMW in sight and wondered what on earth I was doing. What was I expecting to discover? Fighting down a growing sense of the ridiculous, I followed him along the Broadway, past South Wimbledon Tube and out on to Merton High Street. Where was he going? Probably off to the gym or just home. A sudden thought occurred to me and I nearly veered off the road as the extent of my own stupidity hit me. I hadn’t thought to ask Laura for something as basic as Simon’s address. I groaned aloud (I seemed to have done that a lot today) and mentally beat myself up. I just knew I’d be crap at this. And I was surprised at how disappointed I was with myself. OK, so I could turn around, go home, phone Laura and tell her that it was no good, she’d just have to abandon the whole insane idea, or, I could for once, finish what I’d started.
Now is probably the time to admit to a whopping character flaw: I have a history of giving up. Yes I know it’s a sign of immaturity and I’m not in the least proud of it. The thing is, I’m always madly keen at the start of things; a new job, new relationship, classes in this or that, but when the first flash of enthusiasm has waned and determination, self-discipline and… well, courage, are needed to go on, then I have nearly always taken the easy way out and quit. Not good. So it’s taken me a while to face up to the fact that I am not exactly the queen of the follow through. Somewhere inside me I have a suspicion that this is the real reason Grandma P. left me the house. She knew I needed its security. I felt a prickling of shame and then looked anxiously ahead for Simon. There was the BMW, five or six cars ahead now. Keeping a tight grip on the steering wheel, I followed him as he indicated right and pulled out on to Tooting High Street. Without conscious thought my mind, it would seem, had made the decision without me.
The light was beginning to fade and it was getting harder to keep Simon’s car in sight but doggedly I followed him, crawling through the traffic along Upper Tooting Road, until finally he swung off on to the forecourt of a pub car park. I almost pulled in after him but realised just in time that it would be better to drive past and then double back. Nearly ten minutes later and I’d practically given up all hope of coming across a side street that one could actually drive through. The local market was in the process of closing down for the night. Traders were humping boxes into vans, vast wooden trolleys were being wheeled across the rat-run roads, and commuters were adding to the chaos as they poured out of Tooting Bec tube.
Finally, I found my way back down the hill and drove into the car park. I scanned the dozen or so cars and located the BMW by the rubbish bins. I parked carefully, away from the street light but with a good view of both his car and the pub door.
The Falcon was not a pub I knew. It was bit shabby and not the kind of place I would have expected to find Simon. A few people entered; office workers by the look of them, eager to end their day with a few drinks and a few laughs before heading home. As I waited, an impressive looking dark blue car pulled up. It looked expensive, as did the man who got out of it. He was of medium height but thickset and powerful, wearing a dark suit and was in his early forties I guessed, with a strong profile and dark hair. There was an air of quiet self-confidence in the way he walked that was attractive. Idly I watched him step over a stray cabbage leaf that had blown across from the market and then enter the pub.
I now understand why, in films, it is mostly men that carry out surveillance: bladder control. I had resisted the thought for as long as I could but was now getting desperate. It’s OK for a man, he just has to hop behind a lamppost, or up against a wall… I had no choice. I would have to risk going into the pub. Pulling my cap down low over my eyes, I sidled in and found myself in a small outer foyer. Thank God, the loos were located there and not inside the main body of the bar. Almost whimpering with relief, I locked myself into a cubicle, ripped down my jeans, and finally plonked myself down on the cold wooden seat. Washing my hands and taking a hasty look at myself in the mirror, I felt my confidence return. Now I was here, I might as well see what Simon was up to.
Exiting back out into the foyer, I turned to a large pair of double doors, the entrance to the bar. In each door there was a murky pane of oval shaped glass and through which, feeling rather foolish, I peered furtively. I couldn’t see him at first. My gaze took in a long central counter where a big-boned girl with a topknot was pulling pints and a guy in a heavy metal T-shirt was polishing glasses. A few customers stood waiting their turn to be served, but Simon was not amongst them.
I craned my neck to get a better look and squinted through at the clutches of drinkers sitting at the tables that edged the room, but still couldn’t see him. Perhaps I’d missed him when I was in the loo? Looking anxiously over my shoulder, it then struck me that to someone coming in from outside I probably looked like a recovering alcoholic slavering at the door, desperate for a drink but not trusting myself to go in. Flexing my neck muscles, I once more raked the room and finally spotted him at a small table in the far corner deep in conversation with a man. It was the guy in the dark suit from the car park. Casting one more glance behind me, I studied them.
Simon appeared to be explaining something. Even from this distance I noted much shaking of the head and hand gestures that were mostly palm-upwards. The Suit, in contrast, didn’t seem to be saying much. Legs crossed and his body still and relaxed, he rarely looked at the younger man and hardly seemed to be paying attention. That was about as far as my limited knowledge of body language could get me. What they were talking about I couldn’t begin to guess at and what their relationship was I had no idea, but it didn’t look to me like they were just a couple of friends having a quiet drink together.
After another five minutes, it appeared that their conversation was coming to a close because Simon got up and held out his hand to The Suit, which was my signal to get the hell out of there. I scooted back to the Renault and panting a little with adrenalin and nerves, I hit the throttle and headed for home.
A vodka shot and a bubble bath helped a little with the nerves. Then I thought about supper. I am not one of these girls that only have half a lemon, a pot of cottage cheese, and some wilting salad in the fridge. I love to eat and cooking relaxes me. So I knocked up one of my favourite pasta dishes, mushroom and tarragon fusilli, poured myself a glass of red wine, and took both into the sitting room to enjoy on the sofa.
When I was done I reached for my mobile. “Hi Laura, it’s me.”
There was a beat of expectation in her tone. “Clarry! I’ve been dying to speak to you all day. Have you found out anything yet?”
I cut across her. “No not yet, these things take time. Just wanted to check something with you, for my research. What is Simon’s address?”
She sounded disappointed. “Sorry I didn’t mean to rush you, it’s just… well, you know… ”
I did and I felt for her, but I wasn’t telling her anything yet. Grabbing a pen, I jotted down the street number and name. “So, when are you next seeing him?”
“Tomorrow night. He’s booked a table at The Lighthouse.”
“Have a great time love. I’ll phone in a couple of days for a proper chat.” I rang off hastily before she could quiz me.
Stretching back against the cushions I took a thoughtful sip of wine. I was due back at Abbe’s on Wednesday evening, so that meant I would have to make full use of tomorrow. I put down my glass and dialled Flan’s number.
CHAPTER FIVE
I woke at seven o’clock and, before I could talk myself out of the idea, reached for my trainers and headed off to the Common. I am not, repeat not, a fitness freak (I’m very happy being a curvy girl), but I do need something to work off my highly indulgent diet. So, dutifully I thunder down the bridle paths and through the thickets of Wimbledon Common four or five times a week and this means that I can continue to spread peanut butter on my toast so thickly that I leave teeth marks and still fit into a pair of size 14 jeans.
It all seemed rather comfortable and clubby, a safe and certain world where retired people enjoy small reassuring routines. Some days I envy them and stop for a chat, but this morning I struck out into the woods following a small stream from Caesar’s Well that leads down towards Beverly Brook. I hadn’t run this path for a month or so. The hawthorn and hazel that had been stripped and bare were now thick with buds. Small brown birds darted through the briars and I could hear the insistent hammering of a woodpecker high up in the trees.
As I plunged through the undergrowth I felt fresh and alert, building up a rhythm and concentrating on my breathing. My mind was clear. I knew what I was going to do next and when I got home I’d make some calls to put the first stage of my plan into action. The second part of the plan however, the part I had concocted with Flan last night, I was not so certain of.
I pounded along a winding track overgrown with ivy and thought over our conversation. Stephen Oakley had told Flan that they had nothing for sale in Alwyn Road. This could mean that the house was already under offer, but then why would Simon have shown it to me? And what about all that junk mail? And the fact that he’d been most insistent that he was handling the sale personally bothered me. Did his colleagues even know about the property? If they didn’t then the details, and there must be some sort of paperwork even in this digital age, were unlikely to be kept in the office. In the bright light of day, the second part of the plan seemed shadowy, insubstantial, and downright crazy. Of course we couldn’t go ahead with it. Could we?
After a shower and a bowl of cereal, I was ready for stage one.
“Dunstan Stead,” a chirpy female voice at the other end of the line greeted me.
“Mr. Napier please.” I injected as much crisp professionalism in my tone as I could muster.
“Certainly, and whom should I say is calling?”
“Gemma Buchanan.”
I was put on hold and listened without pleasure to a ghastly instrumental version of ‘The way you look tonight’. Just when I was regretting that Elton John had ever sat down at a piano, Simon picked up.
“Simon Napier speaking, good morn…”
I didn’t give him time to continue and cut in with, “We want to make an offer on Alwyn Road. Shall I meet you on-site or at your office?”
There was a pause. “I see. How much are you…?”
Again I interrupted him. “I think these things are done so much better face to face, don’t you? How about twelve o’clock?”
Another pause and a longer one this time, but when he did respond he was brisk. “I’ll meet you at the property and it will have to be half past twelve.” And with that he disconnected the line.
Time to get on with my research. Armed with a large mug of coffee and a notepad, I looked up the numbers of various local estate agents.
“Hi, my name’s Lucy Frost from Village Life. Oh, you have not heard of the magazine? Well… um… we’re new. Anyway, we’re doing a feature on quality homes for the larger family, six, seven, bedrooms. We will be approaching your firm next week to give you the opportunity of advertising with us, but in the short term I’m just making some preliminary enquiries on price. For example, houses of that size in… say… Alwyn Road, or on Woodside or Compton?”
The agents I spoke to were uniformly helpful and all told pretty much the same story.
“I see; it can range from three to six million. Wow, and that, I take it, would be for properties in good condition? Right, thank you very much. Our advertising department will be in touch.”
I didn’t have time to start approaching local builders for a rough estimate on doing up a house of that size, but whatever it cost; Alwyn Road was worth a whole heap of money. And I was going to pretend to be making an offer. No, not me, I remembered, but the consortium I represent. That makes all the difference then. I dressed with care, in a white pencil skirt and pale pink blouse, all the while trying but failing to compose a suitable profile for this bogus consortium.
Again, I parked a street away and this time Simon, looking sharp in a navy single-breasted suit, was waiting for me as I approached the house.
“Mr. Napier, I’m glad you could find the time this morning.”
His pale blue eyes looked me slowly up and down and his gaze lingered a little too long on my chest. I became conscious that something in him had subtly changed. He was more confident. Yesterday I had wrong-footed him, but today he was very much in control. Why confidence in men so often displays itself with a sexual edge, I don’t know. Women instinctively recognise it and the suggestion of threat that can lie beneath its surface.
Leaning back slightly, allowing one hand to rest on the rusting metal of the front gate, he asked, “Would you like me to show you around the house again?”
Something about his stance and the self-satisfaction of his manner got under my skin, and in that spurt of irritation, I felt my nerves abate. I smiled coolly up at him. “That won’t be necessary. We are ready to make an offer in the region of five million.”
His eyes flashed with surprise. Whatever price he had been expecting, I am sure it wasn’t as much as this. I’d hoped, rather than calculated, that at this price he had to take the offer seriously. “I see. Well I’ll put it to the vendor of course and I’ll get back to you in a couple of days, but I should warn you that there is a possibility of the property being withdrawn from the market.”
I stared at him. “Really and why’s that?”
“I can’t divulge that information Ms. Buchanan.”
Whatever does Laura see in this guy I thought, but asked, “Is there another offer on the house?”
He folded his arms across his chest and gave me a frigid smile. “I can’t discuss that with you. However,” he said as he took a pace towards me, “I do need some details about you Ms. Buchanan. What exactly is this consortium? I would need that information in order to qualify your offer.”
I felt suddenly charged with energy and resolution. I didn’t like this man and I sure as hell wasn’t going to be bullied by him. Shooting him a dazzling smile, I shrugged my shoulders. “Well as we don’t even know if the house is actually for sale it’s hardly relevant is it?” Stepping away from him, I added, “A couple of days you said? Right then I’ll be in touch on Friday. Goodbye.”
As I walked swiftly away I could feel his eyes on me.
Slowly I drove the Renault back around the corner and spotted him, still outside the house, squawking earnestly into his mobile. After a minute or so he rang off and got into his car. At a discreet distance, I followed him out on to Wimbledon Hill but away from the direction of his office. Snaking around the back of the Village and down behind the Tennis Club we joined the A3 and filtered into the Wandsworth one-way-system.
Adrenaline was pumping through me as we headed for Clapham North and towards Kennington. Where was he off to now? Maintaining a space of at least two cars between us, I threaded my way behind him through the lunchtime traffic into Camberwell Green, keeping well back as he drew up outside, of all things, a barbers. Perhaps in times of stress he nips in for a quick short back and sides?
I managed to park almost opposite Nikko’s the barbers and reached for the baseball hat to tuck my hair into. Nikko’s was a small shop with an old-fashioned faded look to it. It had the traditional red and white striped pole above the awning and a clear glass front allowing a good view of its interior. There were only three customers, each sitting in oversized dentist-style chairs that presumably could be raised down to the level of the low china basins that edged the far wall.
Simon was standing talking to someone who sat with his back
to the window and who was being shaved by a short man in a white jacket. That was as much as I could see and for nearly ten minutes I waited with mounting impatience, until Simon finally walked towards the door. The other man, shave apparently complete, then stood up taking a towel from around his shoulders and dismissing Napier with a nod. I could see him quite plainly and even at this distance his presence had impact. It was The Suit – the man from the pub. Who is he I wondered and does he have anything to do with the sale of Alwyn Road? I didn’t know. I didn’t know anything except that something felt off.
As I followed the BMW back towards Wimbledon, I realised that if something was wrong, if there was something shady about Simon and the sale, then Laura, by default as the one who instructed him, could get into trouble. So, it wasn’t just her love life she should be worried about, but perhaps her professional life as well? I pulled over and dialled Flan.
“It’s me. We’re on for tonight.”
CHAPTER SIX
Elborough Street is a quiet residential road in Southfields. Thankfully, at nearly nine o’clock, there were very few people about. We could see lights on in the house to the left of Simon’s, the semi-detached side, but the one to the right was in darkness, as was his. The BMW was parked outside, so I presumed he’d caught a cab to the restaurant.
Carefully we had scanned the Edwardian bay windowed exterior for signs of an alarm system, but unless it was cunningly positioned at the back where we couldn’t get to it, then we were in luck. Mr. Huxton, Flan’s seventy-two-year-old admirer, had been adamant on this point. An alarm meant that we would simply have to abandon the whole idea.
