that turned my students so stroppy. Stuff that the pumps are still pumping into the drainage system . . .’
‘Stuff from what? This is crazy!’
‘It fits all the facts, doesn’t it?’
The trouble was, I couldn’t find fault with her argument. It was a crude working hypothesis. All the facts did fit. For the moment.
In its own way, it was a kind of dreadful relief. We knew the worst now; or the worst our minds could visualize. All the other facts in our mind, from years gone by, moved over and jiggled about to make room for it. It fell into place; it was.
And with that fitting-in came a humble, dreadful weariness. I knew we should go to sleep when we went to bed. We would sleep in a world where the thing existed. We would wake up to a world where it existed . . .
‘Tomorrow,’ said Hermione, ‘we go and see the house agent.’
The house agent had his office in a quite different part of London. A palatial place, with an all-glass front. Built during the boom, maybe. Now, in the slump, his windows were still full of houses for sale; but several desks behind were empty, with idle phones and dust-covers over the word processors.
No doubt if there hadn’t been a slump in the housing market, he wouldn’t have had time to see us. But you could tell he hadn’t been doing anything. The chrome balls of his executive toy were still moving, infinitesimally.
A tall, well-built man in his forties; blond hair bleached by the sun, very tanned. Not a tan acquired in England.
There were several bits of golfing memorabilia on his desk. Maybe he took golfing holidays in Mallorca. My heart sank. I never met a golfer yet with a big heart. Or a big brain. Still, he fancied Hermione well enough to get to his feet and shake hands.
‘Abbeywalk?’ he said. ‘An interesting property. In a sought-after district.’
‘You’ve seen it?’ asked Hermione.
‘Only photographs. I don’t keep dogs and bark myself.’
His small dark eyes priced us up and down. ‘You don’t give the impression of needing a cheap bed-sitter . . .’
‘We’re interested in buying the house,’ said Hermione. ‘Or could be.’
‘On whose behalf?’
‘I’m not empowered to say at the moment.’
‘I hope they’ve got a big bank account.’ He said it very offensively. ‘In any case, it’s not for sale. Not at any price. My client was absolutely adamant about that. Rent, yes, welcome. Sale, no. There is considerable development potential, when the market picks up again. Besides, my client has no need of the money. He passes most of the time travelling the world, spending it. I wish I had his loose change . . .’
‘Who is your client?’
‘I am not empowered to divulge his name. He has no wish to be bothered. He made that quite clear when he handed the house over to us, last year.’
‘So some other agent had it before you?’
‘Some other agent, yes. Again, I am not empowered to divulge the name . . .’
‘Everyone seems very cagey. Have there been complaints?’
‘Not that I know of.’ But his blink-rate went up quite markedly. ‘May I ask just who you are representing, madam?’
‘I am not empowered to divulge his name,’ snapped Hermione.
‘Then I think I will wish you good day. Miss Hereford will show you out.’ He pressed a buzzer on his desk.
Miss Hereford was a big girl; and there was an even bigger man standing behind her, craning his head to get a look at us.
There was nothing to do but go.
As we regained the street, Hermione said, ‘That’s all you need for a black hole to survive in our society. Somebody who couldn’t care less. Providing he’s paid well enough. I think he thought we were TV people. There has been trouble.’
I stared sadly at the passing buses and taxis. They were trying to persuade me that life was OK and quite normal.
They weren’t making a very good job of it.
‘Do you think the present owner knows?’ I said. ‘He’s getting all that money from somewhere. And I’ll bet it’s not by renting bed-sitters.’
Chapter 13
We were still drinking our first coffee and smoking our first cigarettes next morning, in our dressing-gowns, when there came a heavy knocking at the door. A peremptory knocking, a knocking of authority that made the front door seem very thin.
‘Fuzz?’ asked Hermione wearily.
‘Sergeant Crittenden rides again. I’ll let him in.’ I went down, fearing what he might have to tell us.
But it wasn’t the fuzz.