It Never Goes Away

by Tom Trott

‘That’s not too odd is it? You said quite a few big flat buildings are owned overseas.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s not the building, just one flat. One humble ex-council flat.’

  ‘So what, there must be others.’

  ‘Not like this. It was bought by a company, LEC Management, two years ago, so on the surface it looks like a recent thing; there’s plenty of companies buying properties, holding onto them as investments, then selling them for a profit; but when you look at the records the flat has been company-owned for fifteen years. One company selling to another, then another, then another, with no private owners at any point. I can’t think of a good reason why multiple companies would think this one flat was a good investment. To me it looks like someone is holding onto it and swapping the ownership around to hide the fact.’

  Thalia took up the point: ‘It means we can assume that every company that has owned that flat is controlled by the same people, or person. But there’s no pattern to the companies: some are registered in the BVI, some in the TCI, the Channel Islands, Luxembourg, Delaware, the Netherlands. And none of them have owned any other Brighton property. Whoever is behind this, they’re very thorough.’

  Somewhere in the distance a bell rang, the sound reaching from thirteen years ago. I ignored it.

  ‘Too thorough,’ I said. ‘Each time, they set up a company to buy a property, then when they sell they burn the company afterwards. That way they think there’s no pattern to follow. But that is a pattern. Instead of looking at the properties, look at the companies. Find companies that have only ever owned one piece of property and find out what they’ve owned.’

  ‘Way ahead of you,’ Thalia replied. ‘We’ve started a spreadsheet.’

  She changed tab on the laptop to reveal rows and rows of data, even colour co-ordinated.

  ‘So far we’ve found one hundred and thirty-seven companies, which have between them owned one hundred and thirty-seven commercial and residential properties. In all cases they have bought them, held onto them for a couple of years whilst the price increases, and sold them for five-figure profits. All of the properties are within Brighton & Hove. But if we’re suggesting that all of this is controlled by one group, or one person, what we’re really talking about is a fund worth millions of pounds, not stored in banks but in real estate across the city.’

  I nodded, awed by the magnitude of it all.

  ‘Until last year,’ she added.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Whatever this was, it looks like it started more than a decade ago with two or three properties, they made a profit and the fund grew, and over the years it grew further, until it was worth millions, and then it suddenly stopped.’

  She scrolled through the spreadsheet, showing me a column of dates.

  ‘Last year all the properties were sold,’ she explained, ‘the assets liquidated, and the money exists now on the server of a bank in the Cayman Islands, or wherever. It’s all over, they’ve done what they wanted.’

  ‘All the properties were sold?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, they’ve pulled out. All except the farm,’ Thalia admitted, ‘with its history, maybe they couldn’t sell it for a profit.’

  Stephanie gave a little cough. ‘All except the farm... and one ex-council flat,’ she added.

  ✽✽✽

  Thornsdale is located opposite the corner where Albion Hill meets Phoenix Rise. One of seven thirteen-storey towers that overlook St Peter’s Church, not far from the Steine, and yet are tucked away and forgotten about. Not part of the Steine, not part of Elm Grove, not part of Queens Park, not part of Kemptown, not part of the centre and yet five minutes’ walk from the Pavilion.

  I parked in its shadow, its thirteen storeys of brick towering over me, black against the dark blue sky. The monolith was punctuated by panels of soft colour, light filtered through curtains and blinds, but there were no shadows against them, no movement.

  In the ball of light under a single yellow streetlamp I could see how heavy the rain was. It hammered on the windscreen. It hammered on the roof. It ran off the tower in great waterfalls. It overflowed the gutters of Albion Hill, streaming down the roads, turning them silky blue against the night. No one was out in this weather, I was alone. I pulled my coat tight around me and jumped out of the car, running for the street door.

  I burst into the ground floor corridor. Thunder rumbled the walls. Beneath my feet were hexagonal-patterned carpet tiles in claret and burnt orange, which when joined together formed an endless labyrinth. To my right rose the narrow plastic-trimmed stairs. The ceiling was low, so low I almost bumped my head on the humming yellow lights in their sculpted glass shells. I could see from this floor that there were four flats on each, and I was looking for number 37.

  There was no lift, so my legs ached by the time I reached the ninth floor. Here were flats 36, 37, 38 and 39; 37 was at the opposite end to the stairs, on the left.

  The building was silent except for the endless sound of rain on the window behind me, rising and falling like waves breaking on a cliff. I moved toward the windowless end of the corridor, toward the dirty white door that would have said 37 had the number not been missing. It was a strange way to hide its identity, considering that the numbers for 36, 38, and 39 were all present and correct.

  I inspected the lock. It was different to the others too; more sophisticated, but nothing too fancy that would draw the attention of someone like me. With enough time I could pick it.

  I had enough time, so five minutes later it yielded and the dirty white door swang inwards onto darkness. Thunder shook the walls. I groped for a light switch and on came four wall lights, sick yellow bulbs humming behind frosted glass seashells. Revealed in front of me was one living room with kitchenette, and no outside windows. A doorway opposite suggested further rooms. The living area itself was dominated by two tired brown leather armchairs, perched on green polyester carpet, surrounded by peeling sky-blue wash-effect wallpaper. The brown chairs faced each other, as though ready for an interview. In one corner was an old cathode ray tube television atop a VHS player. On the shelves underneath were the traditional range of Disney videos, mostly classics, some more modern, but nothing beyond the early nineties. There was a layer of dust over everything.

  There was nothing on the kitchen surfaces except a toaster and kettle. The fridge was empty and disconnected. With gloved hands I checked the cupboards. There was no food, only a jar of instant coffee. The glassware and crockery was all neatly stacked. The place had the feel of a holiday cabin closed up for the winter.

  I moved through the doorway into the other rooms. There was a small bathroom with more dust and zero toiletries beyond a dried out bar of Dove soap. The mirrored cabinet above the sink had rusted round the edges, the medicines inside were twenty years out of date. I pulled back the mouldy shower curtain to find nothing.

  There was a box-room-turned-twin-children’s-bedroom with toys still in the cupboard, made beds, and books on the shelf. One bed set was Thomas the Tank Engine themed, the other was Polly Pocket. Both had now faded from the little sunlight that made it through the little window. In the cupboard was a boiler, stone cold.

  Finally there was an adults’ double bedroom with a cheap pine chest of drawers. There were balled-up socks in one drawer and a bottle of Brut. In another was a locked jewellery box; I forced it open with my pen knife. Some imitation pearls, sterling silver pieces, some gold-plated steel; none of it expensive, but important enough to someone. The only other features were an empty wardrobe, empty dressing table, damp, red curtains, and behind them a door onto a balcony.

  The rain beat on the windows. I had resisted turning on the lights and had used my torch to search these other rooms. The air was thick, strangely empty and yet choking. I wanted to open a window, but I also didn’t want to disturb anything. The rain dissipated with a change in the wind. My heartbeat rose as I heard the sounds of movement, of floor and wall creaking; as though flat 37’s malevolent spirit was riling with my intrusion.
Then laughter broke through the thin walls. With a relieved smile I realised it was the flat next door. I heard children laughing, playing, a radio. Adult voices. There was life after all. I had let the empty atmosphere, the weather, and darkness get the better of me.

  I went back to the living room and as I passed the kitchenette a mark on the worktop leapt out at me. The surface was a slab of marble-effect laminate, covered evenly in a layer of dust except for one rectangle. Something had been placed there briefly. Something had been placed there since the dust settled. And new dust hadn’t yet had time to settle there again.

  I checked the bin, hidden in a cupboard. A single spent lightbulb, and the box it came in. I placed both carefully in a plastic bag and into my pocket. Then I left the flat, leaving the door unlocked.

  I moved down the corridor to number 36 and knocked. A man in a dirty white top, greasy hair, stubble, and gold chain opened the door with his back already to me and disappeared. Confused, I stepped inside to see this flat had an entirely different layout. There was an entrance hallway, with two doors leading off each side. They were all closed except the first on the left, from which I could hear a television or radio; I couldn’t tell which, the language wasn’t English. I peered into the room and saw three generations of a Slavic family overflowing a sofa as they stared at a television playing a foreign programme, the children on the floor barely inches from the screen.

  I knocked on the doorframe. Several members of the family groaned and an old woman in a headscarf loudly shushed me with a fierce look on her face. It seemed perfectly ordinary to them that I would be standing there. I knocked again. Heads span irritably.

  ‘Hi,’ I drawled, ‘I want to ask about next door, if you’d heard any noises?’

  They looked even angrier, two of them barked at each other in a language I couldn’t identify.

  ‘Next door,’ I repeated loudly, ‘noises.’

  They all pointed at me. Then I realised they were pointing past me to the door opposite the frame I was knocking on, to the room which had the wall between the flats. I quickly decided they were not going to give me any more so I turned to the door behind me and knocked on that now. It was answered by an African man in moth-eaten clothes. Behind him was a woman and two children. She clutched them tight to her. There was an entire family living in each room. The man smiled nervously.

  ‘Police?’ he asked simply.

  ‘No,’ I reassured him. ‘You speak English?’

  ‘Yes.’ He nodded but didn’t offer further evidence.

  ‘Do you ever hear sounds from next door?’ I pointed to the wall.

  ‘Next door?’ he asked. He didn’t understand.

  ‘Do you hear sounds?’ I pointed to the wall again.

  ‘Sounds?’

  I thought about how to reformulate the sentence. ‘Is there anyone living next door? 37. Any people?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, is empty. No one.’

  That would have to do. I thanked him and left without trying the other rooms.

  Next I knocked on 39, and asked a sweet old lady in a dressing gown if anyone lived at number 37.

  She shook her head, almost throwing loose her hearing aid and the curlers in her hair. ‘No, no, dear, not for years. Must be...’ she thought, ‘...five years now, maybe longer.’

  ‘Does anyone ever go in there?’ I asked.

  ‘No, no, dear. Not for...’ she thought again, ‘...ten years.’

  I thanked her and moved on to number 38, the flat opposite 37.

  This flat was laid out the same as 36 and the door was answered by a boy around ten years old, who proceeded to hang off the doorknob like a monkey.

  I smiled. ‘Hello.’

  He didn’t smile back.

  ‘Are your parents in?’

  ‘My dad doesn’t live here,’ he said, ‘I’ll go get mum.’

  He stopped swinging on the door and marched off down the corridor, disappearing through the back-left doorway. I heard no sounds. Bored, I stared down the main corridor and out the window into the rain.

  When I looked back inside the flat a cute little girl of seven or so was peering from the first doorway.

  I grinned at her. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello,’ she replied quietly.

  She was wearing a pair of pink pyjamas, and her frizzy brown hair was everywhere. I knelt down to her level.

  ‘Nice PJs.’

  She put the cuff of her right sleeve in her mouth and started to suck on it shyly.

  ‘Maybe you can help me,’ I said, ‘you look like you’re very smart.’

  She nodded, her pyjama cuff still in her mouth.

  ‘Do you know if anyone lives there?’ I pointed to 37.

  She nodded.

  ‘They do?’

  She nodded again, more enthusiastically. ‘I hear them,’ she mumbled through the fabric.

  ‘When’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘At night.’

  ‘Every night?’

  She shook her head. ‘Most nights I don’t hear them, only some nights.’

  ‘What sort of time?’

  ‘I don’t know, I don’t sleep a lot. Mum says I have insomnia.’ She pronounced it in syllables, ‘in-som-nee-ya’.

  I smiled. ‘I have insomnia too. When I can’t sleep I get up and watch TV, or read a book, sometimes I even go for a walk or a drive, what do you do when you can’t sleep?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she mumbled.

  ‘Is this your room here?’ I pointed to the doorway she was leaning from.

  She nodded.

  ‘And you hear them from across the corridor?’

  ‘I hear them go in the door.’

  ‘What do you hear?’

  She shrugged. ‘Footsteps. A key.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Have you ever seen them?’ I asked.

  She nodded again.

  I frowned. ‘Are you telling the truth?’

  She nodded.

  ‘How can you have seen them if they only come at night, when you’re in bed?’

  ‘Through the spy hole.’ She pointed to the front door, where there was indeed a spy hole.

  ‘How come you can see through that?’ I asked. ‘You’re only little.’

  ‘Step stool.’

  ‘“Step stool”?’

  She nodded again. ‘Mum keeps it in the kitchen to reach the high cupboards. Uncle Kevaughn says she’s a dwarf. I’ve seen him through the spyhole.’

  ‘Your uncle?’

  ‘The astronaut.’

  ‘An astronaut?’ I asked.

  She nodded. ‘That’s why he only comes home every few nights, other times he’s in space.’

  ‘You’re sure he’s an astronaut?’

  She nodded, entirely sure of herself. ‘He lives there. I’ve seen him go in there. I’ve never seen him come out.’

  ‘Then how do you know it’s one astronaut?’ I asked, ‘How do you know the place isn’t full of astronauts?’

  She took her pyjamas out of her mouth. ‘I’m not stupid.’

  I laughed.

  ‘What do you want?’ Her mother had appeared; a spotty woman with the same frizzy hair wearing a thin dressing gown and a tired expression on her face.

  ‘I was just asking if anyone lived opposite. At number 37.’

  ‘What? No, no they don’t.’ She looked down at her daughter. ‘Tomeka, get in your room.’

  The girl disappeared.

  ‘Your daughter said she saw someone going in there.’

  ‘She lies. She’s a little girl, they lie. Believe me.’

  Tomeka’s face had cautiously appeared round the corner again, I winked at her.

  ‘You’re absolutely sure?’ I asked her.

  ‘What are you, police or immigration? Council?’ She pulled her thin dressing gown more tightly around her and pushed hair out of her now concerned face. ‘Social services? What I do here is completely legal you know!’

  ‘Ha
ve a nice evening,’ I told her, smiled, and disappeared down the corridor toward the stairs.

  Ten minutes later I crept back along the corridor and with a passing glance at 38’s spyhole I let myself into 37, reset the lock, and shut the door.

  I kept the lights off and instead used my torch to find my way to the brown chair that faced toward the door. If the astronaut came home tonight, I would be waiting. It was cold in the flat, but I was wearing my coat and when I was younger I had slept through far worse. Not that I expected to get any sleep. As the minutes stretched on, the rain was a constant but distant percussion, the thunder a bass rumble. Occasional flashes of lightning bled through the doorway from the other rooms like camera flashes on a crime scene.

  To pass the time I kept my torch on my notepad and methodically worked through the various permutations of --·--··- in Morse code, scribbling them down in my notebook as I went:

  T T E T T E E T

  T T A T E E T

  T T A T I T

  T T E M E A

  T T W I T

  Whatever it was, I didn’t think it wasn’t going to start with a double T so I discounted that and moved on.

  M E T T E E T

  M A T E E T

  M A T I T

  M A T E A

  M A N E T, Manet, painter. That was something.

  M A N A

  M E M U

  M P A

  Bored already, I tried random combinations:

  G T X

  Q X

  16

  Hot Air

  I looked down in my lap and saw my notebook closed on my pen. When I opened it the last thing I seemed to have written was “Q X”. Then I remembered.

  No astronaut had visited, I was alone in this musty room. The brown leather chair was still cold. It was light outside, but in this windowless living room it was still dim. I checked my watch, it was ten in the morning. I had slept for twelve hours, I couldn’t believe it. My back and neck hurt from sleeping in the chair, so I shifted to rub them. Something crunched. I reached into my pocket and found the broken remains of the lightbulb I had taken from the bin. It didn’t matter, they were too thorough to leave fingerprints.

  My spider-sense had tingled when I heard about the flat, but the tingling had gone now. The flat was a dead end. Nothing but a remnant of whatever these people had been doing for the last decade. Which probably wasn’t that remarkable, there were probably loads of people doing it. It wasn’t connected to Clarence’s murder. It wasn’t connected to anything.