Chapter 27
VICTORIA
When I return to our room after breakfast it is to find three missed calls and a voicemail notification on my phone from Dee, my number two at work.
Normally, I’d bristle at being disturbed while on annual leave.
But today, the sight of those missed calls sends a frisson of fear down my spine.
I consider ignoring them, but the perverse, masochistic streak in me presses play before I can talk myself out of it.
‘Oh, hello, Victoria. It’s Dee. From Anchorway?’
Dee’s in her late twenties, drinks matcha lattes and talks with an upward inflection like she’s a bloody Australian, even though she’s from Stoke.
‘Sorry to bother you on your holibobs—’ I close my eyes, my jaw clenched.
‘But we have a bit of a problem? Does the name Owen Evans mean anything to you? He’s trending on X at the moment.
He is – was – homeless. You’ve been tagged on some of the posts?
I assumed he must have been one of our service users, but I can’t find his name on the system.
It’s really strange?’ Dee pauses. ‘Anyway, perhaps you can give me a quick call when you pick up this message?’
A feeling of dread lodges in my chest, because the name Owen Evans does mean something to me. A sallow, socially awkward man in his early thirties, he used to be the sole tenant of the tiny basement bedsit at Number Twelve Claremont Crescent.
‘The geezer never leaves the building,’ Shane, my maintenance guy, said with a chuckle once, not long after Owen moved in. ‘Reckon he’s agoraphobic. Either that or he’s a vampire.’
Six foot two with a shaved head, broad shoulders, thick traps and brawny, inked arms, Shane used to work part-time for me and part-time as a bouncer at a nightclub in Brixton.
Maintenance was never his forte – he tended to attack most repairs with brute force and a sledgehammer – but I cared less about his DIY skills and more about his ability to make sure my tenants paid their rent on time.
Barney always joked that Shane was my hatchet man but, frankly, I needed one.
It might have been de rigueur to vilify private landlords, but no one ever stopped to consider what it was like for us.
The stress of late-night calls about broken boilers and ant infestations.
The endless hassle with tenants who seemed to think paying rent was optional.
Jumping to the beck and call of a government hell-bent on using landlords as a cash cow to service the national debt.
Luckily Shane and my company accountant kept everything at arm’s length but even so, I’m sure my grey hairs were caused by the strain of it all.
But everything changed recently when Barney finally persuaded me to sell Number Twelve.
‘It makes sense, Vic. You know as well as I do that the chancellor is bleeding private landlords dry, and your tenants will soon have more rights than you do. Think what we could do with the money. We could pay off the mortgage, take that road trip around New Zealand you’ve always wanted to do, and I could invest the rest. Only the other day Felix was telling me he’s looking for backers to fund the conversion of a Victorian warehouse in Wapping.
He says we’d double our money in eighteen months. ’
I tutted. ‘There’s no way Felix is getting his grubby paws anywhere near my inheritance. You know as well as I do that the man’s a shark. If we’re going to invest the money it’ll be in something safe, like gilts or government bonds. I’m not gambling it all on some dodgy-as-hell scheme of Felix’s.’
‘It’s your money, darling. Of course you must have the final word. But please think about what I’ve said, because the responsibility of owning Number Twelve is taking its toll and I hate to see you so stressed out. You’ll feel better for it, I promise.’
I knew he was right. The place was becoming a millstone round my neck.
I was sure Granny Aggie wouldn’t have minded if I sold up.
So, after a couple of weeks of soul-searching, I told Shane to issue all my tenants with Section 21 eviction notices and instructed an estate agent to put Number Twelve on the market.
I knew the area was up-and-coming, but even I’d been surprised when the house sold to a local architect for ten grand over the asking price within two days of the For Sale boards going up.
Seeing the writing on the wall, my tenants gradually moved out. All except Owen Evans, the socially awkward man in the basement flat.
‘Says he has nowhere else to go,’ Shane told me after another failed attempt to get him out. Owen had refused Shane entry, muttering something about contacting the Housing Ombudsman.
Following the legal route would be torturous, involving applications for possession orders and court bailiffs. I didn’t have the time or the patience.
‘We need to nip this in the bud, Shane. The last thing I need is him bleating to the bloody papers that he’s been treated unfairly. What do you suggest?’
The muscles in Shane’s forearms bulged as he hooked his thumbs in the belt of his jeans. ‘That depends on whether you want to follow the letter of the law or not.’
My jaw tightened. ‘I just want him out.’
‘Whatever it takes?’
I nodded grimly. ‘Whatever it takes.’
I have no desire to know exactly how Shane managed to evict Owen Evans, but whatever tactics he deployed, they worked. The bedsit was empty by the time contracts were exchanged.
Shane was happy with the cash sweetener I offered in lieu of redundancy and the proceeds of the sale are now sitting in a high-interest account while I decide what to do with them.
Barney was, for once, right. Straight away, I felt as if a great weight had been lifted off my shoulders.
Relieved I’d washed my hands of the whole business, I hadn’t given my former tenant a second thought.
Until now.
My phone buzzes again. This time it’s my mother.
‘Mummy, are the children all right?’
She sounds breathless, slightly flustered. ‘The children are fine, Victoria. I’m not calling about them.’
‘Then what are you—’
‘Have you seen the internet?’ she rapid-fires.
‘Um, I’m not sure what you—’
‘You’re all over it.’
‘What?’
‘One of your tenants at Granny Aggie’s has been found dead in the doorway of your offices.’
The colour drains from my face.
‘I’ve been fielding calls from journalists for the last hour. Daddy’s just had to shut the door in the face of some chap who says he’s from the Daily Tribune. He turned up at our house, Victoria. Our house!’ Her voice is shrill.
‘I’m sorry, I—’
‘What are we supposed to do? Your father is about to lose the plot! The children are asking what on earth is going on. As for the neighbours, God only knows what they’re thinking.’
‘Give me ten minutes and I’ll call you back. In the meantime, don’t say anything to anyone.’
‘But what about—’
I gulp air, injecting breeziness into my voice. ‘Don’t worry, Mummy. I’m sure it’s all a storm in a teacup.’ I end the call and stare at my phone. In the space of a few minutes, there are five more missed calls from Dee and half a dozen from numbers I don’t recognise.
I sink onto the bed and cradle my head in my hands. Whatever this is, it’s clearly less of a storm in a teacup and more of a complete fucking shitstorm.