Secret Asset

27

Dave Armstrong was tired. He had volunteered to work with Special Branch checking the letting agencies in Wokingham and he was now regretting it. He could have been back in London, working at his desk, or chatting up Rose Love, the pretty new girl in Investigations who had recently allowed that no, she didn’t have a boyfriend, and yes, she would consider having dinner with Dave sometime, though not soon as she was very busy at work. She had always seemed so intense that he’d been surprised by this softening. Rose was a younger, prettier version of Liz Carlyle, and now Dave had hopes that she might prove more susceptible to his charms. He knew that however hard he tried, Liz would never see him as more than a good friend, colleague and sparring partner.

He thought of Liz as he finished his interview with the fourth letting agency. What was she up to? She never seemed to be at her desk, and she’d been absent from the most recent meeting of the FOXHUNT operational group. Why was she working in the fourth floor corner conference room, along with that Peggy woman from MI6? Had she been seconded? And to do what? Someone had mentioned vetting updates but that seemed an unlikely job for Liz. She was up to something, but whatever she was doing, she wasn’t telling him about it.

Looking at his list, Dave saw with relief that there was only one more agency to visit, and blessedly it was within walking distance of the fourth. So he left his car and walked through the new streets of this extension of Wokingham—Milton Keynes without the planning or the trees, he thought to himself.

He walked deceptively quickly. He was just under six feet tall but was lanky, with long legs, and hair that was a little shaggy by the standards of Thames House. This made him stand out among the more staid senior personnel of the Service, but he fitted in with the people on the streets where he spent so much of his time. Even when he wasn’t outside, he was happier in a parka than a suit, and was largely uninterested in the consequences this preference might have for his future career. Now he cut an anonymous figure, which is how he liked it.

At five-fifteen the small tidy office of Hummingbird Lettings was winding down for the day. The receptionist had left, and Dave found himself alone in a large room with four empty desks. Then someone began whistling, and a middle-aged man came out holding a cup of tea. He was thin and bony-faced, with greying hair and black NHS spectacles. Starting at the sight of Dave, he sloshed tea from his cup. “We’re shut,” he said automatically.

Dave smiled broadly. “I’m Simon Willis,” he said. “I rang before.”

“Oh yes,” the man said, “the gentleman from the… police.”

“That’s it,” said Dave brightly, “won’t take a minute.”

They sat down at the desk and the man introduced himself as Richard Penbury but did not shake hands. He looked dispirited, as if he had had a long and unprofitable day. “So how can I help?” Penbury asked, making it obvious that he didn’t think he could.

“I am making a discreet inquiry,” said Dave, trying his best to sound official, “into the rental of a property to one, possibly two or even three, young Asian males. It might be a small house, or a medium or largish flat.”

The man was shaking his head even before Dave finished his sentence. Another dead end, thought Dave, wondering how soon he could get back to London. Call it an hour—no, an hour and a half at this time of the day. He could ring Rose from the road and maybe she’d meet him at the Compton Arms. Then dinner and then maybe…

He brought himself back to earth to find Penbury saying, “No, nothing like that at all. Most of my rentals this year have been repeaters, or long-term lets for properties people have bought for investment—you know, second houses they let out to cover the cost of the mortgage until the place appreciates and they sell it. That’s the theory at any rate, though lately it’s not been quite so simple. Lots of people have got burned, and between you and me, it’s a tenant’s market these days.”

Why between you and me? thought Dave with some irritation, disinclined to give much credence to Mr. Penbury’s analysis of recent trends in the rental market. Instead of ending the conversation, however, this made him press him on. “Think for a minute please, Mr. Penbury, especially about any new rentals. Are you sure none were to Asians? It doesn’t matter if they weren’t male.”

Mr. Penbury took no time to dismiss this as well. “No Asians. I’m certain. There are some in the area, and we’ve rented properties for and to them, but not recently. I’m sure of that,” he added decisively.

“Let me ask you this: think back to all the rentals you’ve made in the past six months. Was there anything unusual about any of them? Anything that comes to mind—I don’t care if it seems trivial.” He saw the by now familiar look on Mr. Penbury’s face, which indicated the imminence of a dismissive “No,” so Dave quickly added, “Please, Mr. Penbury, this is important or I wouldn’t be bothering you. Please think hard.”

And slowly, if unwillingly, Mr. Penbury seemed to do this. After a long silent period of thought, he said, “There was one property which was a bit unusual. A house on Somerset Drive. The owner used to live there but she’s moved to Devon and we look after it for her. Someone took it on a short-term let this winter—six months. Normally, we wouldn’t do that,” he added, “but what can I say? Better six months than none at all.”

“Who rented it?”

“A man, but he was white. He paid all six months in advance. That’s not unheard of, but I wouldn’t say it was normal.”

“And?” asked Dave, since this didn’t sound so odd that it would have stuck in Penbury’s memory.

“Well, the thing is it hasn’t been used. The last time I checked—you know, just to make sure everything was all right—no one had been in the house at all. I even asked the neighbours, and they said they hadn’t seen anyone there since the owner moved out.”

“When was that?”

Mr. Penbury thought for a moment. “About three weeks ago.”

“Could I see the information for the tenant please?”

When Mr. Penbury hesitated, Dave said gently, “I can get a warrant if you like. But it would save us both a lot of hassle if you’d just let me know.”

Mr. Penbury nodded and got up and went to a filing cabinet in the corner. He came back a minute later with a file. Dave scanned it quickly, but inwardly he didn’t expect to learn much: if this turned out to be a link to the bombers, then the name used, Edward Larrabee, would not be real. “Tell me,” he asked, “do you know the name of these neighbours you spoke to?”

“I do as a matter of fact,” said Mr. Penbury, pleased for the first time. “The wife plays badminton with my wife. They’re called Dawnton; I think he’s Trevor.”

“Thanks,” said Dave. “If you wouldn’t mind making a copy for me,” he said, handing over the rental agreement, “I’d be very grateful.”

Penbury nodded resignedly. “I’ll just warm up the machine,” he said, standing up and heading towards the back of the office.