The Property Manager: You'll never rent again...

by NS Thompson

  27/06/05 Only just Sunday

  12:05 a.m

  I’m not entirely sure I approve of your friendship with those people. I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something not right with that woman’s head. She was so intense at the dinner table and actually insulted your food twice. She did it in an off-hand, jovial way but it was still obvious that she meant it. And it was done in such a condescending way.

  “Now this would be better if you bla bla.” And “I could teach you how to cook this in richer sauce bla bla.”

  The way she spoke to her husband was appalling and I could see that you felt very uncomfortable. It was as if he were her dog, sitting panting by her feet. Heel boy!

  I don’t know if he was drunk or just docile but it didn’t seem to bother him that she contradicted everything he said and spoke to her poor daughter as if she were a slave. God, she was downright scary. She looks down her nose over her large spectacles when she occasionally pays the rent. She never even says hello whereas her husband seems like a personable sort of fellow. I feel sorry for him. No actually I don’t. No real man would put up with that. She has no respect for him. She’s stealing his dignity and he is a willing victim. Weak!

  It was painfully obvious to me that her manner was upsetting you but you soldiered on and kept a friendly face on even if it looked a bit forced.

  I think you hinted for them to leave three or four times before they got it.

  At least your boys went to bed at a reasonable hour….tonight!

  My back hurts from sitting in a confined space between two tree-trunks but I had a perfect view of your dining room, through your open blinds and you’d left a window near the table open just a little bit. It’s a good think it wasn’t too windy or you would have noticed the blind blowing about and shut it.

  I need to call you on Monday regarding your smoke alarms.

  I’ve got a smile on my face because this is going to be a very exciting week for us.

  Don’t invite those people over again. They’re not worth wasting a meal on. Try to get to know Jill Buxton a bit better. She and her husband are more our kind of people.

  28/06/05 Monday

  I’ve been very busy. It’s Monday morning and the weather bureau is predicting snow. It always warms up a little before snow and last night was not too bitter but they never get it right, so I’m doubtful it will eventuate. It is a very still, grey day, like the village has been put inside a grey balloon. I spent all day yesterday fiddling with the various gadgets that I bought in the city. The electronics wiz, Frank, gave me lots of instructions but it’s hard to read his writing. Most of the equipment has come with instructions anyway so I’m pretty sure I’m on track with it all. I’m having a little trouble working out the business with my lap-top but I’ll give Frank a ring later tonight and he can talk me through it. He was kind enough to give me his mobile number.

  First I need to replace your smoke alarms.

  I’ll write here again after work, hopefully with some good news. I wouldn’t dare take this book to the office. Can you imagine it falling into the wrong hands? This book is for my eyes and eventually your eyes only. Anyone else reading it would think we were mad.

  Later

  Hey there. You really are a relaxed and accommodating person aren’t you? I rang you at 9:00 a.m. to say that the type of smoke alarms that you have in your home have been recalled due to a number of faults and it was important that we replaced them as soon as possible as the owner’s Property Insurance Claim had a clause stating that operational smoke alarms must be installed at all times, as did your lease. You just breezily agreed that I could use the office’s keys to your house and to go ahead and replace them whenever it suited me. I explained that I would usually give you some advance notice in writing but due to the clause in the insurance policy it was something we needed to act on quickly. I asked you where the alarms were located and you told me the office (or second bedroom), your bedroom and the hallway just outside the kitchen, near the laundry.

  I knew you were at work until midday when you may or may not pop home, so I moved fast. I told Belinda I was inspecting a broken fence at another property and raced to your place. All my gear was already in my boot.

  I was nervous. There were butterflies in my gut and I felt like I’d inhaled too much Ventolin. I unpacked my sports bag and carried it to your door. Letting myself in, I could smell that you’d had a cooked breakfast. How decadent. I have a piece of fruit and occasionally a slice of plain toast.

  The house was mausoleum-quiet. I could even hear the ticking of a clock from the kitchen. I closed the door behind me and headed straight for your bedroom. I was pleased to see that you make your bed of a morning. I love your covers. Very chic and Eastern flavoured. Indian, I’m guessing.

  I have been into so many rental properties and if they weren’t expecting me- if for example there was a burst pipe or something- I always found that the property was ten times as untidy as when I visited the same people for a periodical inspection.

  Even though you had no reason to believe anyone would be traipsing through your house this morning, it was immaculate. I like a house-proud woman. A slovenly home says a lot. My mother always said that you should never judge a book by its cover but that you should always be ready to find inside, more of what’s outside. So you have a clean, orderly and stylish home and so far I would agree that you possess those qualities yourself.

  Beside your bed, on a table by your reading lamp were a few books. I picked them up and had a look. “Praise” by Andrew McGahan, a translation of the Dead Sea Scrolls and …surprise, surprise a hardback notebook, which upon opening to the first page, I discover is your diary.

  When a woman documents her life, observations and feelings onto paper, we call it a diary. We fellows prefer something a bit less feminine and go for something more chronicle-like. The Journal!

  I wanted to read it but thought better of it. There is something sacred about a woman’s diary. You can discover what a woman likes, dislikes, finds amusing and is afraid of by getting to know her. You can get inside her mind. You can get inside her body. But you can’t fathom the depths of a woman’s emotional ocean. Reading your thoughts would be taking my research too far. I ran a finger over the cover – a serious, staring face of Buddha – and put the other books back on top, straightening them as I found them.

  The smoke alarm was above the door to your bathroom. I’m sorry that I had to use the chair in the corner to stand on to reach the thing. I took off my shoes. It was easy enough to remove from the ceiling, as it was battery operated and self-contained, held there with a strong adhesive strip. Getting my new ‘smoke alarm’ in place was trickier as it was heavier. The last thing I need is for it to drop off and knock you on the head. I pulled the adhesive strip off the old one, very carefully and added that to the bottom of the device. Done. It seemed quite stable with just that little extra stickiness. You’ve guessed by now, haven’t you? This was a smoke alarm with eyes. A hidden surveillance camera sits inside a high grade Sony-colour camera and antenna built into the unit. It is wireless and has a range of up to 700 feet with minimal interference and has a seventy degree angle lens. Operating on batteries means I can only record eight hours or thereabouts before needing to replace them.. I have a transmitter which I will connect up to my lap-top and if I sit in my car, outside your nearest neighbour’s place, where I am out of sight of your house but still in range, I can trigger the camera to begin recording and voila I can have my very own home movies of you my darling – just being you.

  Having installed one, the others were easy. So now I can watch you eat, sleep and work at your computer. I imagine most of the time you’d be fighting the boys for it. I checked, and you are hooked up to the internet. I wonder if you are one of these internet junkies who spend every waking moment looking at funnies, and communicating with everyone they know and some they don’t know just because they can. I suspect no. You’re so earthy that I don’t think technolog
y is your thing. Looking about your place tells me you are an artistic, slightly eccentric woman.

  What is with the creepy medical dummy in your lounge room. He has all his organs exposed and one penetrating eye. Obviously from a medical school, he is very “horror-movie”. You are an odd one, Gracie. The bizarre dummy had a Bowler hat on his head. Perhaps a teenage touch.

  I had a quick look at a photo album that was sitting on the coffee table. It was full of recent shots taken here in Babylon. I took one. It was the last one in there and there was a double beneath it, so I doubt you’ll miss it and if you do, you’ll probably assume it was misplaced.

  I’ve put it in a frame by my bed so I can see you smiling at me as I write these words to you.

  I’ve got a phone-call recording device as well but I looked at your phone and couldn’t figure out how to do it. I’ll ring Frank tomorrow and I’ll sort that out further down the track. I have to ring him anyway about setting the receiver to my lap-top. I’m not sure if one receiver will do it or whether I hook the three up at the same time or alternate according to which camera I am using. I’m just a novice but I’ve got the passion to get this up and operational. I hope to God you don’t start a fire at home as the smoke alarm is only a cover. It’ll just film you burning! So be careful.

  I’m so excited and can’t wait to get some footage. I can make a documentary about you.

  Would it be too cliché to call it “Amazing Grace?”

  29/06/05 Tuesday

  Frustrated! Frustrated. Frank hasn’t answered his mobile phone. I’ve left two urgent messages. I’ve read the instructions and I think I know what I’m doing but I don’t want to mess it up. Perhaps he’ll call me today. I want to start directing and filming my masterpiece of a movie.

  I just heard on the radio that the second Moorebank girl, whose surname was something else despite being the daughter of a Moorebank, died last night and so now the police are looking at a double homicide. You probably know the girls because I know just about all that family hang around Doctor Death trolling for pain killers. The kids play in your patients’ car-park while mum stumbles in for a shot of morphine for her bad back! You can feel my sarcasm dripping down the page, I’m sure.

  We’ll have police combing the streets and interviewing every man and his dog. I guess the township is going to be a media circus as well.

  I’ve got to resolve this stupid matter of the bitch-tenant claiming I harassed her. SHE had the gall to ask the tribunal to hear the matter. If she wins this fantasy battle, I might lose my job or cop a hefty fine. Ron is still fuming and narrows his eyes whenever he sees me.

  It’s being heard on Thursday at 2:00p.m. I’ve been swatting on the internet looking for loopholes and reading about similar cases. In situations like this it boils down to which side is more credible. Who is the most convincing? One is telling the truth and one is not. The victor doesn’t have to be right. The victor has to appear to be right. So in order for the tribunal magistrate to make the correct decision, I must be the epitome of righteousness. And I must paint her as a lunatic. I don’t think that will pose a problem.

  30/06/05 Wednesday

  The last day of the financial year. Accountants all over the place are rubbing their hands with glee.

  Frank, the surveillance wiz, rang me last night and I’ve ironed out the wrinkles I was having. We are all set to go, Gracie. It feels like Christmas. I’m about to unwrap a very exciting toy! Off to work. I’ll be SEEING YOU later tonight. I hope you’re not going out.

  6:35 p.m

  Well, I was right about the media and police presence in town. Blue and white have been the predominant colours of the day as a team of law enforcers, who look like adolescent rookies, go door knocking to see if anyone has any information of value to the homicide investigation. They could be here for weeks, knowing this town. Everyone will have some inconsequential tit-bit of gossip to throw into the melting pot, very little of which I would imagine, could be considered of value.

  Two young officers stepped into our office mid-morning and asked if they could speak to everyone that worked there, one at a time. Ron very generously offered my office as the staff interview room. He kind of sneered at me as he showed them the way. I bristled but stayed quiet and went to stand behind the reception desk, behind Belinda who was aimlessly flicking through the mail.

  “Are you all psyched for Friday?” she whispered.

  I opened my mouth and gave a disbelieving shake of my head like a dashboard dog.

  “Of course.”

  How dare this girl inquire after something that was absolutely none of her concern?

  She raised an eyebrow and went back to her tap, tap, tapping on the keyboard. I fumed at her insolence.

  Finally Ron came out and jerked his head in the direction of my office.

  “You’re next, Jack.”

  He went back to his desk and shuffled papers about as if he was looking for something important. The office hadn’t had a sale in over two weeks so he could pretty much put his shoes up on the desk and have a nap and not hold up business at all.

  I got asked the standard questions.

  Yes I had rented a property to Sandy Moorebank and her sister and the three children they had between them.

  No, I hadn’t seen either of them or the kids since they moved out without notice just over a fortnight ago.

  No, I didn’t know the names of her children.

  Yes, I had heard the rumour that Sandy was working as a prostitute from home but had no reason to believe it was anything other than gossip.

  She owed us $2, 400. I had applied to the tenancy tribunal to try to recover the funds but as we have no forwarding address the chances of that are slim.

  Yes that made me mad but not enough to go on a child murdering rampage.

  Where was I the night of Wednesday the 24th? I was at home having dinner and listening to some jazz and then tucked in early. (I didn’t mention chaperoning you to the Cox’s dinner party)

  No, I didn’t recall anything in the abandoned house of filth that could be helpful. I told them about the repulsive living conditions and they took a few notes.

  I did suggest they look to Bosley House – the mental patient half-way hostel that houses people who really should be institutionalized. That was the talk on the street. Although I told them that my gut feeling was that it was an out-of-towner. They thanked me for my time and informed me that there would be a town meeting in the Babylon Hall at 7:30 p.m tonight, being led by our local policewoman, Michelle.

  I said that sounded like a real hoot and that I’d be there with my party hat on!

  Not really. I politely said I would try to make it.

  A town meeting! I mean really, doesn’t that only happen on “The Simpsons”?

  Are you going? Given that everyone in town seems to know you, I guess you will.

  I’ll have a shower and a quick sandwich and head downtown for the SHOW!

  This might muck up my plans to make my debut as a film maker later.

  9:20.p.m.

  What a load of baloney! You made a couple of valid points during the meeting, standing out heads and shoulders above some of our locals in the intelligence stakes. Who was that woman with the beard and one tooth? Dr Death should really consider setting up a euthanasia clinic out the back for people like her. What did she say? That the whole town should have a curfew of 10:00 p.m. and have a roster for vigilantes to comb the streets. Talk about a knee-jerk reaction. The police actually said that the girls had probably been assaulted and stabbed at around eight p.m. Wednesday evening. They were last seen at the Marigold Diner ordering hot chips for dinner at about seven. They were on foot and heading home out of town.

  Someone has picked them up, probably offering a lift, and then pretending to take a short cut and the rest is history. So the bearded woman’s curfew would have to be from the earlier time of 7:00 p.m. to stop the killer who according to her, works by the clock. Why don’t we just put the whole to
wn under house arrest until the crime is solved?

  Babylon in suspended animation until some city-slicking Sherlock Holmes arrives to

  save the day.

  Frankly the affirmative vote by the townspeople to invite all local men to take part in a swab session on the week-end, donating some DNA to match up with the victims, seems a waste of everyone’s time. Michelle filled us in on as much of the case as she could and one of the points she made was that although the girls appeared to have been sexually assaulted, there was no semen to confirm that, only physical trauma.

  Who is to say that the genital trauma on these girls was not an ongoing assault by one of the sinister characters that used to hang about the Moorebank hovel?

  Now, any man who does not open his mouth and go ahhhh, to be swabbed like a criminal, will be ostracized by the entire community. It would be as if they were admitting guilt.

  How many of the tax payers dollars go into funding laboratory testing on that sort of scale? There must be over one thousand men in this area and I guarantee half of them couldn’t get an erection, let alone ejaculate, let alone stab two girls to death without having a coronary themselves. The age range they have set is 16 – 75. Does that mean your eldest son has to take part in this festival of futility? How obscene! If there was no evidence of ejaculation, then what is to say the killer/or killers might not have been female?

  And I was disgusted at the way the members of this town carried on like media harlots, playing to the camera, trying unsuccessfully to make awfully clever remarks hoping for a little air-time. They were all polished up in their Sunday best and there was more make-up on the women’s faces than you’d find at a cosmetics counter in “David Jones.” I use that analogy because I’ve always found those particular salesgirls as terrifying as clowns.