Three albert terrace, p.1
Three Albert Terrace, page 1
Copyright © 2022 M. S. Clary
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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ISBN 9781803139364
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
With grateful thanks to everyone who
helped me find my way to Albert Terrace
(you know who you are!)
Contents
Preface
Part One
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
Part Two
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
Epilogue
About the Author
Preface
‘The waitress brings the drinks straight away. Mine’s hidden under a ton of ice, bits of orange peel and a lettuce. I prod around with the straw but a chunk of ice flips onto the floor. I should grab a napkin, pick it up, but it’s too far away, out of reach. The guy I’m with keeps talking, hasn’t noticed, so I carry on nodding, trying to look cool.’
‘So you’ve made it up with Simon?’
‘All the while in my peripheral vision, I see this ice cube. I’m wondering, should I say something? And soon the ice is melting into a puddle. I can’t stop looking. What if there’s an accident, someone breaks a leg, bangs their head? What if it’s fatal…?’
‘So how is Simon these days?’
I love Adele, but she can be difficult at times, doesn’t always seem to cotton on.
‘Who I was with is not the point,’ I say.
‘What is the point then?’
‘Well, I suppose what I’m trying to say is, who would be responsible?’
‘Is this a quiz?’
She has this annoying habit of twisting her hair round her finger. Perhaps she thinks it makes her look younger. Perhaps I find it annoying because my hair isn’t the sort you can twist.
‘I’m trying to describe how I was faced with a dilemma.’
‘But, Hanna, it’s only hypothetical, so does it matter whose fault it was?’
‘Suppose the fault was mine?’
There, I’d said it. Out Loud. What had been worrying me for days. I couldn’t bring myself to walk past the Blue Banana in case they’d been closed down.
‘I think you’re taking it too seriously. Food gets dropped in restaurants all the time.’
‘Yes, but if I was responsible and did nothing, that makes me responsible for any repercussions doesn’t it?’
‘But you don’t know there were any repercussions. Unless there’s something you’re not telling me?’
We were both silent for a while.
‘Anyway,’ she says. ‘Did you enjoy the meal?’
Part One
1
I’m due to meet Angela Marriott at three. Records show I’ve introduced her to twenty-eight properties in the past two and a half months. We’re on first name terms now. We’re here to view one of the new apartments by the river. I’m sure she’s seen two already, if not three. They’re conversions on the site of an old factory. Mostly they get bought up as an investment, or by rich folks to rent out to other rich folks who never stay long because they’re in transition; a divorce maybe, or short-term work contract. It’s very quiet here. You seldom see anybody and most of the properties appear empty. One or two owners have put out shiny painted tables and chairs on the balcony, but I’ve never seen anybody sitting there.
I let myself in, open the blinds and switch on the lights. Ten past three and Angela still hasn’t arrived. We’re four floors up, it’s overcast outside, so it doesn’t make a lot of difference. I wish I’d bought some flowers. Actually, Angela has done this to me more than once. Telephoned at the last minute to say something has come up or not turned up at all. She’s going through a separation and there is always some crisis brewing about who is getting custody of this or that. I think they sorted out the cat, but I forgot to remind her there’s a clause preventing pet ownership at Riverside Apartments. Mr Marriott (Jim) went out to Dubai a year ago and doesn’t seem to be coming back. I’ll give her until three twenty, then I’m off.
The previous occupant of this place took his own life eight months ago but it’s only just recently been listed. The owner was advised to wait a bit longer but he seemed determined to crack on. Somebody told me the police were investigating. I can’t remember if it was an overdose or whether he hanged himself. I look round but can’t see any obvious spots for a hanging, though people who are determined can be very inventive. Must have had it planned well in advance. Would be weird though, cooking your supper every night, looking at a beam and thinking, that’s the one.
I’m wondering how Adele is getting on at Albert Terrace. That house has been on the market for two years. It’s what the agency optimistically call a fixer-upper. I’ve offered to buy her a drink if she ever manages to sell it. I’m a bit worried about Adele. She didn’t make her quota last month.
Right, Angela, your time’s up. Her mobile’s switched off, but I send a text anyway. I pull the blinds and turn off the lamps. As I walk to the car a slight drizzle starts up. I encounter nobody.
2
It’s Simon’s weekend to have Sam. He phones to ask if we can all meet up.
‘You’re not working, are you Hanna?’ He says. ‘You know she really likes to see you.’
I remind him of the day she threw my green bean salad into the river.
‘Well, you know what she’s like about anything with air miles.’
‘Hmm…’
‘Well, what about a trip to London, a museum, or perhaps a movie?’
I picture Sam’s face at the thought of a museum. I ponder the likelihood of Sam and me sitting through the same movie. Early on, one bright Saturday morning, we bonded in Superdrug over the eye shadows, but it wasn’t a theme that helped us move forward. She’s always fiddling with her phone and if I ask what she’s doing, she ignores me.
‘Afterwards we can eat at that place you like – you know, where you dropped the ice cube.’
He hasn’t asked what sort of day I’ve had or called me gorgeous. And I’d rather not be reminded of the ice cube.
Simon and I met in a bar one lunchtime just after he and Annie separated. We had too much to say to each other, too much to drink and I slept with him the same afternoon. I know, I know, first date, but at the time I didn’t realise we were having a date.
‘Her mother and I had words,’ he says.
‘So, what’s new?’ I say.
According to Simon, Annie is either a mad bitch or, in extremis, a fucking mad cow. But today she’s just got ‘issues’. There was obviously something between them once. I’d like to get to the nub, hear some detail, but he never quite says and perhaps I don’t really want to know. ‘She’s a busy woman,’ he said once, ‘writing poems to Bru
‘Are we on for Saturday, then? I could pick you up at four.’
I tell him I’ll have to look at my diary but I know I’ll probably say yes.
*
A few weeks ago, Adele asks me if I was going away for Christmas. Are you joking? I said. The commission I’ve earned recently would hardly buy a couple of nights in Chipping Norton, though if I get a bite at Riverside, I’ll be laughing. I wonder how Adele can afford thoughts of holidays based on her recent sales. It’s early, 9.30 a.m. on a chilly autumn morning and the office is quiet.
‘So how did it go at Albert Terrace? Didn’t you have another viewing yesterday?’
Adele is blowing her nose, the manoeuvre taking longer than might be expected.
‘Oh, OK I suppose.’
‘Are they interested?’
‘You never know, do you.’
She’s acting skittery, opening her desk drawers as if looking for something then, finding nothing, closing them again. It’s like she’s drunk too much coffee. Something’s on her mind.
‘Well you must have some idea. Did they say anything about a second viewing?’
‘Not exactly.’ She’s twisting her hair round her finger again. One day I’m going to ask her to stop.
‘You never told me if you and Simon are getting back together,’ she says.
‘You never know, do you.’
We can both play that game. I open up my inbox. Nothing from the Marriott woman about Riverside. I remind myself to phone her later. A heavy silence in the office is broken by another forceful nasal blast from Adele. I pass over the box of tissues and say, ‘Is something up?’
‘You never said how things are going between you and Simon.’
‘There’s nothing to tell and why do you keep changing the subject?’
I think she’s going to ignore me, then suddenly she blurts out, ‘I’m fine! Leave it. Bugger Albert Terrace! If you really want to know, I never went. I missed the appointment. I forgot. So shoot me. Tell Charlie. Tell him to fucking fire me, if you like.’
The outburst comes from nowhere. I turn to look out of the window. A strong breeze is blowing a clutch of browning leaves along the street. There’s something strange about her manner. She’s hardly looked in my direction all the while we’ve been talking, and she doesn’t often swear. I feel troubled at the thought of her risking her job.
‘It’s not the end of the world, Adele,’ I say. ‘If it comes to anything, tell Charlie you were unwell. He’ll understand.’
‘You know he’s only waiting for a chance to fire me.’ She spits out the words.
It’s true. Adele hasn’t had a sale in months and, to Charlie, missing an appointment is worse than homicide.
‘Well, it’s not exactly a crime,’ I say. ‘It’s only one appointment. If there’s a complaint, I’ll say you asked me to cover for you and I forgot.’
‘What if I missed more than one?’ she says, which strikes me as a strange response.
‘I’ll say I double-booked or went to the wrong address. We’ll think of something. Nobody died.’
Silence descends over the office. A silence that creeps out from the four corners of the room, drifts past the computers and over the filing cabinets.
‘You’d do that for me?’ asks Adele, eventually.
‘It’s no big deal. I’ll alter my diary, make it look official. I’ll do it now. If Angela Marriott puts in for Riverside, Charlie won’t even notice.’ I don’t believe this for one minute, but the thought is comforting.
It occurs to me it’s odd there hasn’t already been a complaint from an angry client left standing in the cold outside the Albert Terrace property. Perhaps she never made any appointments. But why not? I’m baffled. The phone rings and there’s no opportunity to say more. We make an effort to get back to work.
Later, Adele brings me a cup of coffee, asks me to tell Charlie she feels unwell, and goes home early.
Next morning, there’s no sign of her. Charlie comes in much later than usual. Wants me in his office asap. He’s got this kind of floppy hair, dirty-blond, that needs a trim but something in his manner tells me this isn’t the moment to offer advice. He doesn’t bother asking me to sit, but I sit anyway. I think I know there’s trouble coming.
‘Pity Adele’s not here yet,’ he starts off. ‘Do you know anything about what happened at Albert Terrace yesterday?’
I’m about to break in with my apologies on Adele’s behalf when Charlie says, ‘The police have been in touch, asking if we saw anything funny.’
The police? I don’t know what to make of this, so I shake my head and say nothing.
‘Well,’ says Charlie. ‘I told them Adele would have let me know if she’d seen anything fishy but I had to ask. Has she said anything to you?’
Cautiously I ask, ‘Has something happened?’
‘Too right,’ answers Charlie. He leans back and his jacket falls open to expose a red checked shirt stretched tight across his belly.
‘They’ve found a body.’
A body? Does he mean a dead body? Such concepts are completely out of place in this office. Here we talk of charming properties, cheeky offers, and new bathrooms.
‘Adele asked me to keep the appointment for her,’ I say, ‘but in the end I couldn’t make it. I was going to ring the client and apologise.’
‘Oh, you’d never have got near the place. The postman noticed a broken window and spoke to a neighbour. Neighbour called the police. Police broke in and found this body. A woman. Blood everywhere.’
Completely shocked, I sit back in my chair and try to think. Even Adele would have noticed a dead body.
‘Why did the police want to speak to us?’ It’s a feeble question but I’m playing for time, giving myself a chance to think. Fortune Estates ‘For Sale’ sign has been anchored outside the house for months. Some wag had painted in Mis-Fortune. Charlie ignores the question anyway.
‘Do you know anything about the other visits she made before yesterday?’ He is puffing a bit.
‘Cancelled, I think she said.’
‘What? All of them?’
‘You know how it is. People drive past. Don’t like the look from the outside.’ Why am I saying all this?
‘Hmm. Well, you’d both better check your diaries for dates. We need to get everything ship shape before Billy Boy comes calling.’ I catch his tone and nod. ‘We’ll all do our best to help.’ He’s having difficulty catching his breath. ‘Tell me the minute Adele comes in.’
I’ve got Adele on speed-dial. I try her three or four times during the day, but get no reply.
3
Police Officer Morgan stands by the office window, feet wide apart.
‘So you’ve never been to number three Albert Terrace on any occasion?’
I’ve offered him a chair but he says he prefers to remain standing, so I, too, feel obliged to stay on my feet.
‘That’s right. I should have gone there last Friday afternoon to cover for a colleague.’ Officer Morgan doesn’t react. He’s thumbing backwards through a small notebook.
‘A statement by Ms Adele Stevens, your colleague here at Fortune Estates, claims differently.’
‘Oh?’ I haven’t heard anything more from Adele. She’s been off work for two days and hasn’t responded to my texts. I wonder when the police spoke to her. I look past him as rain begins to splash across the window, quickly turning to hailstones. I’m wondering where I’ve left my umbrella. Wondering where this is going.
‘In her statement, she gave me a list of the dates you visited on her behalf over the past six weeks.’
Six Weeks! Is Adele mad? I should have anticipated this, got my story straight.
Officer Morgan straightens, preparing to ask further questions. I notice the sharp crease in the sleeve of his white shirt. I wonder who ironed it for him. Perhaps there is a nice wife at home with the children or perhaps he does his own, maybe he sends out to the laundry…
‘Well?’ he asks.
‘I will have to look at my notes, officer, and let you know.’
