Barry Maitland - The Marx Sisters

Brock and Kathy subsided into soft black leather cushions. Recessed downlighters in the smoky silvered ceiling picked them out in pools of light, so that they felt like scruffy artefacts on exhibition in an upmarket gallery. Copies of The Estates Gazette bound in clear perspex covers were to hand on glass side tables.

Mr Slade’s secretary was considerably more mature and more functional than the receptionist. She led them down a timber-panelled corridor and knocked at an unmarked door.

‘Come.’

Derek Slade was in his shirtsleeves, his tie loosened at his neck. He was a powerful-looking man in his midthirties, who looked each of them directly in the eye, shook hands firmly, sat them down courteously and ordered coffee.

‘Have we met before, Chief Inspector? Your face looks familiar. No? Well, this is an unusual visit.’ His voice managed to sound both circumspect and quietly forceful. ‘I don’t believe I’ve ever been interviewed by detectives from Scotland Yard before.’

Both Kathy and Brock were trying to process his accent in the automatic English way, without success. It seemed both classless and placeless.

‘Yes. Thank you for seeing us so promptly, sir,’ Brock led off. ‘We’re conducting inquiries into a possible murder, and you may be able to give us some background information on the circumstances of the victim.’

‘Really? Is it someone I know?’

‘Meredith Winterbottom.’

Slade looked puzzled. ‘I don’t think the name rings a bell.’

‘Of 22 Jerusalem Lane, WC2.’

Slade’s expression didn’t change. He just stared for a moment at Brock.

At that moment the phone at his elbow burbled discreetly. He lifted it.

‘No calls, Valerie… Oh? All right, I’ll speak to him.’ He smiled apologetically at Brock. After a brief exchange he hung up.

‘My solicitor. A colleague of his wanted to warn me that you might be calling on me. Intriguing. So, how can I help?’

‘We understand,’ Kathy said, ‘that your company has been buying property in the area of Jerusalem Lane. Can you tell us how much of the block you’ve actually acquired to date?’

Slade frowned. ‘We have agents who act for us in property acquisitions. If you want to talk about that, I would prefer to have them present.’

‘Oh, is that necessary? Surely you would know which properties you actually own?’

‘They act under our instructions, but we may not have a complete record of transactions to date here in this office. If you want an accurate picture I’d really prefer to get them in. They’re only round the corner-Jonathan Hockings.’

‘You think Mr Hockings might be available?’ Kathy asked.

Slade smiled at her. ‘Jonathan Hockings are the company. You’ve probably seen the name on letting boards. They’re an international firm. Their Quentin Gilroy works for us. I’ll try him.’

He picked up the phone and placed the call through his secretary. Gilroy was available, and promised to come round immediately.

As they sipped their coffee, a look of recognition suddenly came over Slade’s face.

‘Brock! Of course. You were in charge of that recent shooting case, weren’t you? That’s where I’ve seen your face. On TV.’ He smiled and sat back in his chair staring at Brock appraisingly.

‘Look, could I have your autograph for my son? He was following it all.’

Brock dutifully took the offered pen and notepaper and wrote, ‘Best wishes from Detective Chief Inspector David Brock, Scotland Yard.’

‘Splendid. Could you maybe put his name at the top-to William Slade?’

As he added this, Brock said, ‘I understand you’re planning a bit of development around Jerusalem Lane, Mr Slade?’

Slade gave a little smile. ‘You might say that. Come, I’ll show you.’

They went through the secretary’s connecting office to a long, windowless room with a boardroom table. At one end stood a large architectural model. Three granite-clad towers with pyramid roofs, ranging from fifteen to twenty-five storeys in height, stood in a landscaped plaza.

Slade gestured with open hand: Jerusalem Lane, mark two.’

‘Good God!’ Kathy exclaimed. ‘Where’s the Lane?’

‘We’ve kept the name in a bistro planned in the podium here.’ Slade pointed. ‘Sunlight, space and greenery. Like the squares of Georgian London. Well, the Prince won’t think so. All the same, a big improvement on what’s there at the moment, yes?’

At that moment the door opened and a tall young man stepped soundlessly into the room. ‘Derek,’ he murmured, and then shook the others’ hands as Slade introduced them.

‘This is the famous Inspector Brock, Quentin. You remember? That shooting of those policemen.’

‘Oh, right, yes.’ The young man smiled languidly at Brock. He had the casual assurance of a public school education and three years at Oxford, and the sharp eyes of a dozen years in real estate.

‘Have you come across a Mrs Longbottom, Quentin?’

‘Winterbottom,’ Kathy corrected.

‘Believe I may, Derek. Jerusalem Lane?’ He nodded at the model.

‘Right. Seems the lady is deceased, and the Inspector is interested. Any clues?’

‘Last spoke to her about four months ago, I’d say. Not interested in selling, I’m afraid. It’s in the monthly printouts.’

‘How much of the block does First City actually own now?’ Brock asked the agent.

Gilroy raised an eyebrow at Slade, who nodded.

‘Pretty much all of it, number 22 excepted. And 83-87 Carlisle Street is still with the lawyers. Braithwaite’s still playing silly buggers, Derek. I’ve told him to get his bloody finger out, but he’s the same as always. I think you should give him a blast. The synagogue’s still in limbo, but it seems pretty certain now that the Minister will declassify it.’

‘But surely,’ Kathy broke in, ‘if 22 doesn’t sell, the whole thing will be stopped.’

Slade smiled indulgently at her. He reached across to the model and lifted out a small section of the podium near the base of the tallest tower. ‘Phase five,’ he said. Beneath the removed section was the outline of the plan of 22 Jerusalem Lane. ‘They can stay if they want. Of course it’ll be a worthless piece of real estate if they do. Unsaleable.

‘You have to understand,’ he continued, fixing Brock with his unblinking eyes, ‘that this has been the outcome of a long and painstaking process. The key to the redevelopment of this run-down area of London has been land ownership. For hundreds of years no one has been able to assemble the land to redevelop it. Now we have. It’s taken a long time. We bought our first property in this block thirty years ago, and we’ve hung on to it through boom and bust, and gradually added to it and waited until within the last year the whole block matured like a ripe fruit, ready to go. I didn’t know Mrs Winterbottom, and I’m sorry to hear about her death, but her decision wasn’t going to make any difference to this development, one way or the other.’

‘Couldn’t she have objected to your planning application?’ Kathy asked.

Slade shrugged. ‘As I said, it would have made no difference.’

‘Mr Gilroy,’ Brock said, ‘who else have you negotiated with over number 22, apart from Mrs Winterbottom?’

Again the agent looked to Slade, who gave an imperceptible nod.

‘I did speak to the family solicitor. I thought he might have been able to help Mrs Winterbottom to get a balanced view of the advantages of our offer.’

‘And her son, Mr Terry Winter?’

‘Yes, the solicitor mentioned him. I had a word with him on the phone one day. Didn’t do much good, though.’

‘But he was receptive to your proposals?’

‘He listened to what I had to say.’