Chapter 30
VICTORIA
It doesn’t take long to establish what’s happened.
A homeless man has been found dead in the doorway of The Anchorway Trust’s offices in Kingston.
According to an online story on the Daily Tribune’s website, the man died of a suspected overdose.
His untimely demise, the journalist pontificates, is a sad indictment of the state of the UK’s housing crisis.
Both the secretary of state for housing and the charity have been approached for comment.
I turn my phone over in my hand, mentally composing my response.
‘We at The Anchorway Trust are committed to tackling Britain’s housing crisis head-on.
Even one homeless death is one too many.
For it to happen on the doorstep of an organisation dedicated to ending homelessness is devastating.
I want this young man’s tragic death to be a warning to government and the housing sector that more funding is desperately needed if we are to reverse the decades of neglect and our record levels of homelessness. ’
I allow myself a small smile of satisfaction as I quickly type my response into the notes app before I forget it.
The death is tragic, but you never know, some good might come of it.
Perhaps Anchorway should launch a fundraising appeal in the poor chap’s memory.
The public loves a sob story. The government might even find some extra funding from down the back of the treasury’s sofa.
When it comes to housing charities, Anchorway is pretty small fry compared to some of the heavyweights like Shelter, Crisis and Centrepoint, but with a larger budget there’s no reason why we can’t sit at the table with the big boys.
And greater exposure for the charity means greater exposure for me.
The more I think about it, the more I realise that far from being a PR disaster, this could turn out to be a win-win situation.
I’m so caught up in a daydream in which I’m walking up to the shiny black door of Number 10 Downing Street to the sounds of clicking cameras, ahead of a meeting with the prime minister and housing secretary, that it takes a moment to remember Dee’s voicemail.
Does the name Owen Evans mean anything to you?
My chest tightens. The homeless man who died in our office doorway couldn’t be Owen Evans, could he?
No, of course he couldn’t. Kingston is miles – both literally and metaphorically – from the scruffy streets of Camberwell.
It’ll be some other poor bastard. God knows, there are enough of them on the streets of London.
I should call Dee, if only to put my mind at rest.
Dee answers the call on the second ring. ‘Oh, Victoria, thank goodness. I’ve been trying to get hold of you!’
‘And now you have,’ I say smoothly. ‘Though I can’t think what might be so important that it can’t wait until I’m back in the office.’
‘God, it’s awful,’ Dee says, as if I haven’t spoken.
‘When I arrived at work this morning there was this homeless guy fast asleep in the doorway? I didn’t know what to do, so I gave him a little shake to wake him, you know?
It seemed, I dunno, bad form or something to step over him?
But he was cold, stone cold. And stiff?’ Dee’s voice cracks.
‘He was clutching an empty bottle of pills in his hand and they were, like, diazepam? I called an ambulance, even though I knew it was too late. And then the police arrived, and they’ve taped the whole area off like it’s a crime scene—’
‘A crime scene?’
‘Everyone’s having to use the fire escape.
’ Dee sniffs. ‘I probably should’ve sent them all home, because everyone is so upset?
But I didn’t know what to do for the best. It’s not like there’s anything in our policies and procedures on what to do if a homeless guy decides to overdose in our doorway, is there? ’
‘When you left a message you asked if the name Owen Evans meant anything to me.’ I know I sound clipped, but I don’t have the time or energy to listen to Dee’s musings.
‘That’s the guy’s name,’ Dee says. ‘He hasn’t been formally identified yet, but that was the name on the bank cards in his wallet. The police asked if he was one of our service users? I looked for him on our records but couldn’t find him.’
‘Yes, yes, so you said.’ I drum my fingers on the bedside table. ‘What else do they know about him?’
‘Well, the funny thing is, I’ve literally just come off the phone to the police.
They’ve just spoken to his next of kin. Apparently, Owen is – sorry, was – a thirty-two-year-old freelance web developer who used to live in a bedsit in Camberwell until he was kicked out by his landlord a couple of months ago. He’s been living rough since then?’
My patience is at breaking point. ‘Are you telling me or asking me?’ I snap.
An intake of breath. ‘I… I’m telling you.
The police think it might have been a cry for help, you know?
Him overdosing in the doorway of a homeless charity like that?
We’re already getting calls from the media asking for a statement.
I’ve drafted one, but as it’s so high-profile I assumed you’d want to see it first. I’ll email it to you. ’
‘Don’t bother. I’ll send you something.’ A thought occurs to me. ‘You said I’d been tagged on some of the posts?’
‘Weird, right? I guess it’s because you’re the charity’s chief exec?’
‘I’m sure you’re right.’ I stand abruptly and stride over to the window. ‘I’ll send over our response now. Ensure every journalist who’s made contact is sent a copy and make sure it goes up on the website too. I want you to let me know of any new developments immediately.’
I end the call and lean my forehead against the glass. My reputation’s safe for now. But if anyone gets so much as a whiff of the fact that I was Owen Evans’s landlord, the fallout will be nothing short of catastrophic.
Like a smoker reaching for a cigarette, I open the banking app on my phone.
Seeing the money from the sale of Number Twelve sitting in my bank account will make me feel better.
It always does. Money gives you freedom, choices, security.
It opens doors and improves your quality of life.
It might not be terribly PC to admit it, but everything begins and ends with money.
I click onto the high-interest savings account, searching for the comforting sight of my seven-figure balance.
The shock, when it comes, is visceral. It travels through my veins like crystallised ice, making my heart pound and my head spin.
I rub my eyes and look again, hoping I’ve made a mistake. But there it is in black and white.
The money’s gone.