Peter Turnbull - Deep Cover

‘Police.’ Vicary showed his ID.

‘Oh.’ The man, J.J. Dunwoodie by the nameplate on his desk, paled. ‘No bother, I hope?’

‘Plenty.’ Vicary smiled. ‘Always, always, always plenty of bother. . no shortage of bother at all, keeps us in gainful employment, but we are here only to seek a little information.’

‘Of course.’ Dunwoodie indicated two easy chairs with wooden arms that stood in front of his desk. The officers took a seat, and only when they were seated did the young Dunwoodie also sit. He was, thought Vicary, a young man who seemed conscientious and took his job very seriously, although working for a private landlord would, he mused, offer limited potential for advancement and would not have the generous conditions of the service enjoyed by public or civil servants. He said to himself, ‘You can do better than this, young Dunwoodie. Much, much better,’ but he said aloud, ‘We understand that WLM Rents owns a property near here, specifically on Claremont Road, by the railway, particularly number 123; can’t forget that house number. Very convenient.’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘You seem to know it?’ Vicary noticed Brunnie take his notepad from his coat pocket and a pen from the inside pocket of his sports jacket.

‘Yes, I do, I know it well, but it is not typical of WLM Rents.’

‘Oh?’

‘Oh, not at all, WLM is more upmarket than 123. We rent to young, professional people. Number 123 is one of our ancillary properties.’

‘Ancillary properties?’

‘It will be developed soon, when Mr William is ready. It has been an ancillary property for a year or two.’

‘And you have permission from the local authority to use it as business premises?’

‘Yes, all legal and proper. It was derelict and Mr William negotiated the change on the deeds as part of the condition of undertaking its development. It was a real eyesore; in fact an oak tree was growing up from the basement. So the local authority was pleased when someone was prepared to take on the renovation. It gave Mr William a bit of leverage you might say, to negotiate the change to the deeds.’

‘I see.’

‘So. . 123 is awaiting development, then we’ll rent it to the young professionals. Kilburn is very convenient for the City so we have a lot of bankers and stockbrokers on our books. I mean, direct tube to central London, just one change to reach the Square Mile; our tenants are between university and their first mortgage. That’s how Mr William made his fortune.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. He’s a stockbroker. He made a killing about twenty years ago and he used his money to buy up as much of Kilburn as he could. He saw the potential of the area. He knew it would be gentrified and he was right, money came in from rents and he bought more houses, and he now has over one hundred properties. . all in Kilburn. He is known as the King of Kilburn.’

‘How interesting.’

‘Yes. He has done well.’ Dunwoodie beamed.

‘So tell us about the house on Claremont Road?’

‘Yes. . well, run down. . can’t rent it as it is, not to the sort of person we want to deal with. So it’s used for storing furniture, but we also use it as a grace and favour residence for people who do the occasional odd job for the company.’

‘Grace and favour?’

‘Yes, it’s hardly a St James’s Palace sort of grace and favour residence but it keeps the squatters out. The people in the ancillary properties don’t pay rent but Mr William asks them for favours from time to time.’

‘And if they say “no” they’ll be in the street?’

Dunwoodie looked uncomfortable. ‘Well. .’ he stammered.

‘How many such properties does he have?’

‘About ten ancillaries. . mostly young women are in them, some young men.’

Vicary and Brunnie glanced at each other. Vicary then looked back at Dunwoodie. ‘So where do we find Mr William?’

‘At home. . sometimes he calls in here to water the plants.’

‘The plants?’

‘Yes, he’s quite green-fingered.’ Dunwoodie pointed to a line of potted plants which stood on a series of red filing cabinets. ‘He likes to keep the plants watered. It gets hot and dry in here. I could do it, the watering can is there, but he likes to do it. But mostly he works at home.’

‘What is his home address?’

‘His main home is in Virginia Water.’

‘It would be,’ Brunnie growled. ‘What’s the address?’

‘I can phone him to ask him if I can give you his number.’

‘Address!’

‘I don’t know it, just his phone number. But I am not supposed to give it to anyone; he’s very clear on that point.’

‘We’re not anybody,’ Vicary snarled. ‘The number!’

‘Really, I am under strict instructions-’

‘You could be arrested and charged with obstruction. This is a murder enquiry.’

‘Murder!’ Dunwoodie gasped.

‘Yes. Murder. With a capital “M”.’

J.J. Dunwoodie reached for the file index on his desk and began to thumb through it. ‘Old fashioned, I know, but so what, it works. Ah. . here it is, Mr William Pilcher.’ He read out Pilcher’s phone number and Brunnie wrote it in his notebook. ‘I’ll have to phone Mr William and let him know that you called and demanded his phone number.’

‘Do that,’ Vicary replied. ‘And tell him to expect us very soon.’

‘Soon?’

‘As in just how long it will take us to drive from here to Virginia Water,’ Brunnie explained. ‘That sort of soon. Have a good day.’

John Shaftoe pulled down the microphone until it was level with his mouth and cast a despairing eye at the trembling and twitching Billy Button, who looked at the corpse with undisguised fear.

‘You know, Billy,’ Shaftoe leaned on the stainless steel table, resting his fleshy hands on the raised lip, ‘you could do worse than put it all into context for yourself.’

‘Sir? What do you mean, sir?’

‘Well. . tell me. . how old are you now?’

‘Me, sir, I’m fifty-seven, sir.’

‘Fifty-seven?’

‘Yes, sir, last July.’

‘Alright.’

‘So just three years short of your three score. . just thirteen years short of your three score and ten. .’

‘Suppose so, sir.’

‘And you’re still going strong.’

‘Suppose that too, sir.’

‘OK. Well, look at this fella here on the table.’ Shaftoe nodded to the corpse of Michael Dalkeith which lay face up on the table with a starched white towel draped over the genitalia. ‘How old do you think he is — or was — when he died?’

Button shrugged. ‘Forty, sir?’

‘Probably younger than that, probably a lot younger. I saw the conditions he lived in: one room in a shared house in Kilburn across the street from the railway line. So do you want to swap places with him? Would you want his living conditions rather than your own?’

‘No, sir.’

‘No, sir. . right, sir, you’ve already lived longer than he has lived. . lucky you. And you’ve a wife and a home to go back to each evening. He was born when you were already alive and you’re still alive now that he is no more. What have you. . you and me both. . what have we got to complain of?’

‘Well. . since you put it like that, sir. .’

‘Nothing is the answer. Nothing.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And the next PM we will be doing today, just a lassie, barely in her teens. I’ve seen her corpse. . wasted wee soul; she was brought in last night — almost like a skeleton covered in parchment. So context, Billy. . context.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And if it’s being cut open after you are dead that scares you?’

‘Yes, sir. . those shiny instruments.’

‘I’ve told you before; the chances are it won’t happen.’