You Are Dead

78

Friday 19 December

Shortly before 9 a.m., Red Westwood sat in her Mishon Mackay liveried Mini, at the top of the short, steep driveway that led up to the red-brick neo-Georgian mansion, with its columned portico, waiting for her clients to turn up. A strong wind shook the car, and the sky threatened rain again at any moment. Not a great day for showing a house, she thought.

A slim, attractive, red-headed woman in her thirties, she was feeling more than a slight sense of apprehension about being here. A little over six weeks ago, she had been abducted by a former boyfriend, posing as a client, from outside a house on this very street, just a few hundred yards to the east. Although he was no longer a threat, his presence hung around her like a ghost. She studied the particulars on the clipboard in front of her, which she had written herself.

Moments later she heard a roar, and a black Porsche pulled up just in front of her. A short man in his late forties, she guessed, wearing an expensive leather bomber jacket and a gold Rolex, climbed out of the driver’s side, and a much younger-looking, elegant woman, a good six months pregnant, climbed out of the other.

She opened her door and hurried over to greet them, arm outstretched, the wind tearing at her hair. ‘Mr and Mrs Middleton? I’m Red Westwood from Mishon Mackay. Very nice to meet you!’

She shook their hands. He introduced himself as Darren and his wife as Isabel.

Both of them stared up at the front facade.

‘This is such a beautiful house,’ Red said, enthusiastically.

‘The windows are all wrong,’ Darren said.

‘Well, the thing is,’ she went on, ‘this house is only twenty years old; it is in immaculate condition. And one major benefit is that it’s not a listed building, so if you were to buy it you could of course put in whatever windows you liked.’

‘You ever put new windows in a house? You know the cost of doing that in a place this size?’

‘Of course, cost is a consideration. Shall we start with the inside, then we’ll do a tour of the garden!’ she said, brightly. ‘The garden really is quite spectacular. I love this area — I really do consider this the finest residential road in the whole city. Partly of course because there is so little traffic noise.’

‘Apart from the learner drivers crawling around it like snails. We had to wait twice for learners to make U-turns to get here.’

‘It’s a beautiful view,’ his wife said, as if trying to pacify him.

‘Oh, it is, Mrs Middleton,’ Red said. ‘And of course this side of the street, where the houses are elevated, gets the finest views.’

The three of them stared over the rooftops of the houses, right down towards the English Channel.

‘On a clear day the views are really magnificent,’ the estate agent said.

‘How many clear days do we get a year?’ Darren Middleton asked.

‘Two hundred and seventy-two out of three hundred and sixty-five, Mr Middleton,’ Red replied.

‘You’re having a laugh.’

‘No, I assure you, I’m not. Lloyds actuarial statistics show that there are just ninety-three days a year here in Brighton in which there is some precipitation during the twenty-four hours of that day. This is one of the sunniest places in the British Isles!’

He looked up at the threatening sky. ‘Could have fooled me.’

Red led the way to the front door.

Fifteen minutes later, Red walked them through the huge conservatory, and unlocked the patio doors. The Middletons followed her around the edge of the infinity pool that abutted the house, with its electric retractable glass roof, and onto the terraced lawns beyond, with their wealth of statues and Romanesque follies.

Whilst his wife gazed around in wonder — imagining the lavish parties she could throw here, Red hoped — Darren Middleton went over to the east wall, mostly masked with plants, pushed aside the branches of a mature fig tree and hauled himself up.

Then he turned in horror. ‘Excuse me, what is that monstrosity?’

That was the one problem, Red knew. The derelict house next door, with its untamed jungle of a garden, was an eyesore. But the truth was, unless you jumped up on the wall, like Mr Middleton was now doing, it was invisible. Except, of course, from a few upstairs windows of the house, which she had carefully kept them away from.

‘Well,’ she responded brightly, again. ‘The great thing is that the property has been unoccupied for very many years. The garden is simply wonderful for wildlife. All the nettles provide a haven for butterflies and birds.’

‘And urban foxes,’ he said, dubiously. ‘Who owns it?’

‘The house is owned by an overseas company. The one next to it is owned by a doctor.’ Then, as if realizing this was a plus factor, she added, ‘He’s a very respected figure in the local community.’

Middleton jumped down from the wall. ‘It’s a breeding ground for rats and other vermin!’ He shook his head. ‘Presumably someone, at some point, is going to buy it and develop it? They might try to build a sodding high-rise there!’

Red, feeling increasingly gloomy about these people as prospects, said defensively, ‘I don’t think the planning officers would ever allow that in this residential area.’

‘I’ve dealt with planning officers before. They can be somewhat unpredictable.’

‘Well, that’s true, but I cannot see them ever allowing a high-rise development here. Now, would you both like to see indoors again?’

‘We’ve seen enough, thanks, Ms Westwood. We’ll need to have a think.’