Doncan laughed. “Well, that’s better than what I heard. Someone told me that you’d already put your cottage on the market. I told them I highly doubted it, but I thought I’d better ring and check on you.”
“Make sure I haven’t lost my mind, you mean,” Bessie replied.
While the pair were chatting, Bessie’s post arrived. She smiled excitedly as a large envelope dropped through her letterbox. That had to be the details on the flat from the estate agency.
“Give my best to your lovely wife,” Bessie told the man, wrapping up the call. “You’ll be one of the first to know if I decide to move.”
Hanging up the phone, she picked up the post. The large envelope was printed with an odd-looking logo that she could just about work out as the initials ICP, linked together with all sorts of curlicues and swirls. She couldn’t imagine who might have designed such a ridiculous symbol for the company. Her name and address had been printed almost illegibly across the front.
Bessie quickly dealt with her other post, immediately discarding the junk mail and tucking the postcard from a friend on holiday into the frame of a picture on the sitting room wall. It would sit there for a few days or weeks before Bessie added it to the box of such things in her spare bedroom.
She made herself a cup of tea and then sat down with a few biscuits and the packet from Island Choice Properties. The letter had the same horrid logo across the top and it was addressed to “Mrs. Elizabeth Cubbon.” Bessie gritted her teeth as she read it quickly.
Dear Mrs. Cubbon,
It was a pleasure speaking with you today about the Douglas flat you are interested in viewing. I look forward to showing it to you on Monday morning, as arranged.
Please find enclosed the details for that flat, as well as the particulars for several other flats in the Douglas area that I though might be of interest.
I shall take the liberty of making viewing appointments for a few of them for Monday, to follow on from our viewing at Seaview Terrace. If that isn’t convenient, they can be easily rescheduled.
Thank you for choosing Island Choice Properties. I look forward to meeting you.
Sincerely, Alan Collins
Bessie sighed. She didn’t really want to see the Seaview Terrace flat. Now it looked as if she was going to have to go around a few others as well in order to persuade Mr. Collins that she was genuinely interested in moving.
“No more favours for friends,” she muttered to herself as she put the letter down and took a look at the brochure for the flat in question.
The price shocked her, but it shouldn’t have. She knew property prices had gone up dramatically in the last year or so. Her own cottage had to be worth at least as much as the flat she now read about.
While the estate agent had done his best to describe the flat in glowing terms, it was obviously just a small flat in a small building. Bessie read through the descriptions of each room, thinking how much they reminded her of Bahey’s place.
Putting that paper aside, she flipped through the half-dozen or so other properties that Alan Collins had included. If the price of the first flat had surprised her, she was speechless at some of the others. The listings had been arranged in the envelope in ascending price order and by the time Bessie reached the last sheet, she was laughing to herself. Even if she could afford a million-pound property, there was no way she would ever consider buying one. What on earth had Doona told the man that made him think she might?
The property in question, a penthouse flat in a brand-new building, sounded lovely. It was right on the promenade and there was no doubt it would have amazing views from its “floor to ceiling walls of windows,” but Bessie already had amazing views and she certainly didn’t need three bedrooms and four bathrooms in downtown Douglas.
She put the paperwork back, giving the letter a dirty look as she slid it into the envelope. Something caught her eye that had her pulling the letter right back out again.
“Interesting,” she said out loud as her brain registered what she’d seen. Down the left hand side of the page was a list of “Directors.” Bessie read the list again. There were only three names on it. Alan Collins, George Quayle and Grant Robertson.
Grant Robertson she knew more through reputation than anything else. He’d worked for the Manx National Bank for many years and had earned a reputation for being both ruthless and slightly dishonest. He’d retired early and taken several board positions with local companies. He was also well-known for being willing to invest in locals with big ideas and small budgets. Bessie knew of three or four small business owners who owed their success to his assistance, which was often not simply financial. She’d been told more than once that the man was very willing to get his hands dirty, helping a small business get started.
George Quayle was another matter. He had grown up on the island and then moved across. He’d made his fortune in sales and had recently returned with his wife and their children and grandchildren. He was a loud and boisterous man that Bessie found she could only take in small doses, but she was enjoying a growing friendship with his shy wife, Mary.
But what was he doing acting as a director for Island Choice Properties, Bessie wondered. There was only one way to find out.
“Mary? It’s Bessie Cubbon. How are you?” Bessie began when the phone was answered.
“Oh, Bessie, I’m fine, thank you. What can I do for your today?”
“Two things,” Bessie replied. “First, can you meet me for tea on Tuesday somewhere lovely?”
“I’d like that,” Mary said. Bessie could hear the smile in her voice. “How about that new little tearoom in Ramsey that wasn’t open yet when we tried to go last time? I’m sure it’s open now, but I haven’t managed to get inside yet.”
“That’s perfect,” Bessie said. With their plans made, Bessie moved on to her next question.
“I had lunch with a friend the other day and she is trying to persuade me to move into her building in Douglas. I told her I’d have a look at an empty flat there and it’s listed with Island Choice Properties. They’ve just sent me the details and I see that George is a director there. I’d never even heard of them before.”
Bessie stopped there, well aware that she hadn’t actually asked any questions but unsure of how to phrase what she wanted to know, which was anything and everything about the company.
“Oh, I’d love it if you’d move to Douglas,” Mary told her. “We could get together far more regularly.”
Bessie laughed. “I’m really just looking at the flat to humour my friend,” she said. “But I suppose it’s possible that I’ll fall in love with it.”
“I do hope so,” Mary replied. “But I don’t know anything about George being a director at any estate agency. I don’t really keep track of all the things he does. I’ll have him ring you back, shall I?”
“That would be great,” Bessie forced herself to say, hoping that Mary wouldn’t pick up on her lack of enthusiasm.
Bessie looked at the clock and sighed. She’d been so interested in her post that she’d forgotten to have lunch. The tea and biscuits had been a poor substitute, so now she fixed herself a tin of soup and ate it with a slice of bread.
George Quaye rang her back in the afternoon, just when she’d reached the very best part in the book she was reading.
“Hello?” she said, her mind still lost in the pages of the thriller.
“Bessie, my love, it’s George. Mary said you wanted to talk to me.”
Bessie held the phone away from her ear as his voice boomed down the line at her. Why did he always talk so loudly, she wondered.
“Ah, yes, I was just telling Mary that I saw your name on the letterhead for Island Choice Properties,” Bessie replied.
George laughed. “Ah, that’s Grant’s baby, nothing to do with me, really,” he said.
“But you’re listed as a director,” Bessie said.
“I put up a bunch of the money,” George explained. “But I don’t have anything to do with the
running of the company or anything. Grant brought Alan Collins in from across to handle the day-to-day operations, and I gather he keeps a close on eye on everything Alan does.”
“I’ve only met Mr. Robertson once or twice,” Bessie said, almost to herself.
“Oh, you’ll have to come to our barbeque the week after next,” George said. “Grant will be here, and I’m sure Mary’s planning to invite you.”
“I’m having tea with Mary on Tuesday,” she told him.
“Oh, good, glad you two ladies are keeping up your friendship. Mary rather needs friends.”
“Yes, well, she’s lovely….” Bessie trailed off. “Hello?” There was no reply. Clearly George had decided that their conversation was finished.
Chapter Four
The weekend was a relatively quiet one for Bessie. Spencer stopped by on Saturday to thank her again for her help in his job hunt.
“I have three interviews lined up for next week,” he told her excitedly.
He didn’t mention Doona, so Bessie didn’t either. Otherwise, Bessie was on her own, just the way she liked it. She pottered around her cottage, doing some cleaning and tidying when she felt like it. She ate what sounded good at whatever time she felt hungry and she read her way through a dozen books. To Bessie, that was just about a perfect weekend.
On Monday morning Dave picked her up and took her into Douglas. She’d arranged to meet Alan Collins in the foyer of the building on Seaview Terrace.
“Do you know what time you’ll need driving home?” Dave asked as he pulled up to the curb.
“I’ve no idea,” Bessie said with a sigh. “Mr. Collins may have arranged for other viewings, so I’ll have to ring you.”
“Sounds good,” Dave told her. He jumped out and held her door for her as she climbed out of the car. “Have fun,” he whispered.
“Not likely,” Bessie muttered in reply.
She quickly walked up the short pavement to the building’s entrance door. The door had been propped open with a block of wood and Bessie frowned at the compromised security. While the island was a very safe place to live, she didn’t think it was wise to invite trouble. If this sort of thing happened regularly, it was less surprising that someone had found his way into the empty flat.
It was quite warm in the small foyer, and Bessie could understand why the building manager, who was once again sitting behind his small desk, had propped open the door. A very light breeze coming in from the sea was the only thing that was moving the air around the stuffy space.
“Good morning,” she said politely to him.
He looked up from his newspaper and squinted at her. “Morning,” he said in a grumpy voice.
Before Bessie could continue, a man rushed into the foyer.
“For goodness sakes, man, there’s a prospective buyer coming through in a minute. What did I tell you about propping open that door?” he shouted towards the building manager.
Bessie studied him as he bent down to move the wooden block. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, with a small amount of dark hair that he’d combed from one side of his head to the other in an effort to disguise the fact that he was mostly bald. He was wearing an ugly brown suit in a chequered pattern that he must have bought when he’d weighed at least a stone more than his current weight. Perhaps he’d been taller in those days as well, Bessie thought, as she noticed that the trousers were considerably longer than they ought to have been.
Now he straightened up, allowing the door to slam shut. He wasn’t much taller than Bessie, and he glanced at her through beady little eyes before turning his attention back to Nigel Green.
“I told you we need to make a good first impression,” he said angrily. “The flat’s been on the market for three months and this woman definitely has the funds to purchase it. Not only that, I got told on Friday that she’s friends with George Quayle. Do you know what that means?”
“It probably means you shouldn’t be talking about her right in her face,” Nigel drawled, glancing at Bessie.
The man flushed and looked from Nigel to Bessie and back again. “Isn’t this your mother?” he hissed at Nigel.
Nigel shook his head and then laughed. “Mum’s tucked up having a nap,” he told the man. “I reckon this is your prospective purchaser and I also reckon she’s none too pleased with you.”
The man took a deep breath and then straightened his shoulders and turned to face Bessie. “Mrs. Cubbon?” he asked. “I’m Alan Collins. I’m very pleased to meet you.”
Bessie forced herself not to laugh; instead she followed his lead and pretended that she hadn’t just witnessed the little scene she’d thoroughly enjoyed. He was sadly mistaken if he thought she wouldn’t remember it, though.
“How do you do, Mr. Collins,” she said, offering her hand.
“You must call me Alan. And I’m terribly sorry, but I don’t shake hands,” he told her. “I’ve a very weak immune system, you see.”
Bessie raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps you’re in the wrong line of work,” she said dryly.
“Oh, but I love my job,” he told her. Bessie couldn’t detect any enthusiasm in his words. “But shall we have a look at that flat, then?”
“Yes, let’s,” Bessie agreed, eager to get things over with.
Nigel handed Alan a key ring and then sat back in his chair with a smile on his face. “I hope you like it,” he told Bessie politely.
“This is the main entrance foyer, of course,” Alan told Bessie, ignoring Nigel completely. “As you can see, it has a security door and a doorman on duty during the day. Each flat has its own intercom that connects to the system, so if someone rings the bell for your flat, you can find out who it is before you unlock the door for them.”
“How nice,” Bessie murmured.
“The postboxes are all back here,” Alan continued, leading Bessie across the small space. Along the far wall the two rows of metal postboxes were arranged at a convenient height next to a small door.
“The door opens into the post room,” Alan told her. “Only the postman has a key to the room, so he can go in and distribute the post and nothing can be tampered with. It’s very secure.”
“Indeed,” Bessie replied.
“This would be your postbox,” Alan told her, gesturing towards the box labeled “10.” He inserted a key from the ring that Nigel had given him and pulled open the box door. The small box was empty, which was to be expected, Bessie supposed. She glanced inside and made what she hoped was an appropriately appreciative noise.
“Right, then, let’s head up to the flat, shall we?” Alan said with much more enthusiasm than Bessie felt.
“Certainly,” Bessie said to his back as he strode away.
It only took three steps for her to catch up to him at the tiny lift. It took several minutes for the lift to arrive, during which Alan kept up a steady stream of comments about the amenities of Douglas.
“Of course, the island’s only hospital is here,” he told her.
“There’s a hospital in Ramsey,” Bessie pointed out.
“There is?”
“Only a small one,” Bessie explained. “But it is quite useful for the people who live in the north of the island.”
“Well, Douglas has the best shops, of course, being the island’s capital. And we have….” Bessie tuned him out as he droned on. She’d lived on the island for more years than he’d been alive. She was well acquainted with everything Douglas had to offer.
The lift, when it finally arrived, smelled peculiar.
“What is that smell?” Bessie asked as Alan punched the single button that made the car travel between the two floors.
“I don’t smell anything,” he said.
The lift rose slowly before the doors gradually slid open. Alan stepped out quickly, tripping over the two-inch difference between where the lift had stopped and the actual first floor. He nearly fell over, just barely catching himself. Bessie decided to ignore the muffled curse she heard as she carefully followed hi
m out into the corridor.
Number ten was the first flat on the right, and Alan had the door open quickly. “In we go, then,” he said, holding the door open so that Bessie could walk through.
The flat appeared to be identical to Bahey’s, as Bessie had been expecting. She walked in slowly, studying the main living space with a critical eye.
The walls were that particular shade of cream that builders and estate agents seem to love. The floor was covered with wall-to-wall carpeting that matched the walls exactly. The curtains that covered the windows were the same bland shade and Bessie felt slightly disoriented by the sheer relentless lack of colour.
“It’s just been redecorated to a very high standard,” Alan told her. “The carpets and drapes are new and the walls were just painted.”
“Who buys paint in this non-colour?” Bessie asked, shaking her head.
“It’s a lovely neutral shade,” Alan replied. “The carpets and walls would complement any furniture you chose to put in here.”
Bessie didn’t bother to argue. For all she knew, he was right, but it was incredibly boring. She strode to the largest window and pulled back the curtains.
“Of course, the views are excellent,” he told Bessie.
She looked out at the back of the hotel on the promenade and sighed.
“You can see the sea,” Alan told her. He pointed to the gap between buildings where Seaview Terrace ran. Bessie could see the promenade, and if she worked at, she could just about see the water as well.
“Of course, the tide is out,” Alan said. “You’ll have a better view when the tide comes in.”
Bessie bit her tongue and walked over to the side window to see what she could see from there. Bahey’s flat was in the middle of the row of three, so she didn’t have a side window. Bessie pushed back the curtains and smiled. Because the building had been built on an angle towards the sea, there was a better view from here.
“This flat has the best views in the building,” Alan told her in a confiding tone. “This is the only one on this end of the building to have side windows. The foyer, the lift and the stairs are in the way of the others.”
Aunt Bessie Finds Page 6
