running out to the café for doughnuts. ‘I need fuel,’ he said importantly.
It was him. I knew it was him. I could tell by the way he sent long, warning looks in my direction the rest of that day and the following week that it was him. He had wiped the answerphone clean of Mrs Wendell’s message, then failed to act on her follow-up call, with a view to nothing less than making me look like a schoolboy halfwit.
Then two weeks after the Wendell debacle, three rival buyers on the brink of making me offers for an unattractive but extremely well-priced house with conversion potential rang within an hour of each other to count themselves out. None of them was able to give me a convincing reason for their change of heart. Was it bad luck? Was it something I’d said? Mr Mower pursed his lips at the news but remained silent.
I brooded for half an hour then jumped in my car and sprang a visit on one of the buyers who I knew worked at a motor dealership on the town bypass. At first he thought I was a customer and came sauntering out when he saw me browsing the used models in the forecourt. He became flustered when he realized who I was, and gibbered about the weather and market conditions inauto sales until I eventually pinned him down on the question of the house. After further humming and hawing he said he had been put off buying by reports about the neighbour.
‘The neighbour?’
‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’m not against people with mental problems. It’s a tragedy. My gran’s in a home, but you know … we’ve got kids. And they’ve got this guy wandering in the street in his pyjama top? He’s not even that old apparently. And I hear he’s pretty full-on when he gets going. A lot of disturbance, night and day, shouting and banging and crying. Once they saw smoke pouring out of the window.’
Was any of this true? I’d heard nothing about it.
‘I’m pretty sure there’s nothing in this,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you let me look into it? Perhaps arrange another viewing. I’m sure the vendors would be able to reassure you.’
He grimaced. ‘Sorry. I don’t think so.’
‘I really think whoever told you this might be pulling your leg.’
He looked at me. ‘I can tell you it’s from the horse’s mouth. People in the business. With respect, that’s the trouble with you guys. You only give us half the story.’
I drove back to the office and called the man selling the house. No, there had never been any problems with a neighbour. Yes, there were one or two families on the street caring for elderly relatives but there had never been any trouble. I believed him.
Guy was the trouble. This had his paw-prints all over it.
But I could be trouble too. A couple more weeks went by, and I heard Guy hissing at someone on the phone one afternoon, saying they had to call him later at home. This was suspicious in itself – when Mr Mower and Stella were out of the office, Guywas more than happy to spend large portions of what he called ‘down time’ purring down the phone at impressionable shop girls or cackling with his drinking chum at the builders’ merchants. But then later he hung back in the office when the rest of us were leaving and the cleaner was just arriving. ‘I’ve just got a couple of clients to catch up with,’ he explained.
I stood in the entrance to the shopping arcade opposite the office where I could see him hunched over his desk talking on the phone. Then he put the phone down and waited by the fax machine. For the next fifteen minutes he shuttled urgently between the fax and the photocopier. At last he came out with his briefcase. I stepped back into the shadows and watched him get into his car and drive off.
The next morning I was first in the office, with Rita, who had opened up. When she went to put the kettle on, I had a look around. There was nothing of interest on Guy’s desk. But there were clues: an activity report on the fax with a phone number; the photocopier was set to
It was him. I knew it was him. I could tell by the way he sent long, warning looks in my direction the rest of that day and the following week that it was him. He had wiped the answerphone clean of Mrs Wendell’s message, then failed to act on her follow-up call, with a view to nothing less than making me look like a schoolboy halfwit.
Then two weeks after the Wendell debacle, three rival buyers on the brink of making me offers for an unattractive but extremely well-priced house with conversion potential rang within an hour of each other to count themselves out. None of them was able to give me a convincing reason for their change of heart. Was it bad luck? Was it something I’d said? Mr Mower pursed his lips at the news but remained silent.
I brooded for half an hour then jumped in my car and sprang a visit on one of the buyers who I knew worked at a motor dealership on the town bypass. At first he thought I was a customer and came sauntering out when he saw me browsing the used models in the forecourt. He became flustered when he realized who I was, and gibbered about the weather and market conditions inauto sales until I eventually pinned him down on the question of the house. After further humming and hawing he said he had been put off buying by reports about the neighbour.
‘The neighbour?’
‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’m not against people with mental problems. It’s a tragedy. My gran’s in a home, but you know … we’ve got kids. And they’ve got this guy wandering in the street in his pyjama top? He’s not even that old apparently. And I hear he’s pretty full-on when he gets going. A lot of disturbance, night and day, shouting and banging and crying. Once they saw smoke pouring out of the window.’
Was any of this true? I’d heard nothing about it.
‘I’m pretty sure there’s nothing in this,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you let me look into it? Perhaps arrange another viewing. I’m sure the vendors would be able to reassure you.’
He grimaced. ‘Sorry. I don’t think so.’
‘I really think whoever told you this might be pulling your leg.’
He looked at me. ‘I can tell you it’s from the horse’s mouth. People in the business. With respect, that’s the trouble with you guys. You only give us half the story.’
I drove back to the office and called the man selling the house. No, there had never been any problems with a neighbour. Yes, there were one or two families on the street caring for elderly relatives but there had never been any trouble. I believed him.
Guy was the trouble. This had his paw-prints all over it.
But I could be trouble too. A couple more weeks went by, and I heard Guy hissing at someone on the phone one afternoon, saying they had to call him later at home. This was suspicious in itself – when Mr Mower and Stella were out of the office, Guywas more than happy to spend large portions of what he called ‘down time’ purring down the phone at impressionable shop girls or cackling with his drinking chum at the builders’ merchants. But then later he hung back in the office when the rest of us were leaving and the cleaner was just arriving. ‘I’ve just got a couple of clients to catch up with,’ he explained.
I stood in the entrance to the shopping arcade opposite the office where I could see him hunched over his desk talking on the phone. Then he put the phone down and waited by the fax machine. For the next fifteen minutes he shuttled urgently between the fax and the photocopier. At last he came out with his briefcase. I stepped back into the shadows and watched him get into his car and drive off.
The next morning I was first in the office, with Rita, who had opened up. When she went to put the kettle on, I had a look around. There was nothing of interest on Guy’s desk. But there were clues: an activity report on the fax with a phone number; the photocopier was set to
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