Trouble on the Heath: A Comedy of Russian Gangsters, Town Planners and a Dog Called Nigel

Chapter One

It was Nigel’s favourite tree. He liked to pee on it.

Malcolm would have to wait until Nigel had finished, but he didn’t mind because when you stood by this tree you got a great view of Hampstead Heath. Malcolm could imagine he was deep in the countryside, rather than in the middle of London.

There were two houses set back from the lane and, in between them, you could see one of the Highgate Ponds. Then, rising above the trees was a green hill. At the top of the hill was a circle of trees around a hump that was known locally as an old burial mound.

Malcolm knew it wasn’t actually an old burial mound because he knew about burial mounds. Malcolm, you see, was Professor of History at the University of London.

But today, there was something different about Nigel’s favourite tree. Malcolm frowned. There was a notice pinned to it, and notices pinned to trees are mostly bad news. They often mean that someone has lost their cat or that a loved one has died on that spot.

Malcolm peered at it more closely. It was one of those Council notices headed: “How does this affect you?” The size of the print was very small, on purpose in the hope that no one would bother to read it. Sadly for the Council, today Nigel was doing a lot of sniffing, and Malcolm had plenty of time to read it.

“Proposed demolition of two three-storey dwellings (Class C3)…”

Malcolm looked up at the two houses. Why on earth would anyone want to knock them down? They were nice houses. OK, one of them was empty, but the other was lived in, and they were good-sized houses, too. They were probably worth a small fortune.

Still, Malcolm thought, if they were to go, there would be an even better view of Hampstead Heath from Nigel’s favourite peeing tree. He – for one – would not object to that.

Malcolm couldn’t tell you why he had named his dog “Nigel”. But he had.

It was at that moment that Nigel vanished through the fence. This bit of road was a quiet dead-end, so it was usual for Malcolm to take Nigel off lead as soon as they got to it. It was always a relief not to have Nigel tugging at the lead, but there was always the chance that he might disappear through the fence. As he just had.

“Nigel! Nigel! Here, boy!” Malcolm called without any real hope of Nigel coming back. His lack of hope was fulfilled beyond his wildest dreams. Nigel was gone for a good twenty minutes.

After all, Nigel was chasing squirrels and such a serious task couldn’t be halted simply because your master wanted it to. As any responsible Jack Russell owner knows, normal rules don’t apply during a squirrel chase.

Nigel had trained Malcolm well in such matters, so Malcolm now looked around for something to do until the squirrel chase was over. He began by reading the Council Planning Notice again. Next he admired the view again. Then he started looking through the fence in the hope of seeing Nigel – the hero of the squirrel chase.

It was then that Malcolm spotted it. It was almost hidden behind a clump of weeds, down near the bottom of the fence.

It was a second, even more discreet, Council notice.

“The ‘Department of Hiding Notices’ probably won an award for this one,” thought Malcolm. “I wonder if they planted the weeds after they put up the notice?”

He moved the weeds to one side, and read: “Erection of four-storey single-family dwelling house plus two basement levels, to follow the demolition of both existing three-storey dwelling houses (Class C3).”

Malcolm took a deep breath as he took in what it said. He tried to imagine a house with four floors and a double basement standing where the two houses now stood. Cold fury welled up in Malcolm’s heart. It would block the view of the pond and the Heath. He would lose his favourite view from Nigel’s favourite tree!

Malcolm was trembling as he tried to find a piece of paper and a pen. Of course, that was all part of the Council’s strategy. They knew that most people would not be carrying pen and paper with them when out walking their dogs. With any luck, by the time the dog walkers got home, they would have forgotten the planning application number, or even forgotten about the whole business.

And what was that at the bottom of the page in very small writing? “Comments must be received within twenty-one days of the date of this letter.”

The date on the notice was 1st May! It was now the 18th May. That gave only three days to object.

At that moment Nigel squeezed back under the fence.

“Listen, Nigel. I want you to remember the Planning Application number: 2010/5369/CP,” said Malcolm.

Malcolm was still searching through his pockets for anything that he could write on, or with. It was his habit to jot things on his shirt cuff, to the despair of his wife and the local laundry.

“Why do you do it?” his wife Angela kept saying. “You know it ruins your shirts!”

Malcolm agreed with her, but he couldn’t stop himself. Especially when he needed to remember something important, like now.

However, this time his shirt was spared. His hand closed around his mobile phone. He pulled it out of his pocket and punched the planning application number into the phone’s address book.

“Ha, ha! Fooled you!” he snarled at the Council with grim satisfaction.

However, Malcolm would live to regret being so resourceful, for he was about to be sucked into a web of suspense and violence that would spiral out of his control.