On the drive to the estate agent’s Artimus set Neil a challenge. Neil would do all the questioning there, and at the interview’s end, he would explain the reasons for his actions; Artimus promising he would only interject if absolutely necessary.
Neil accepted, desperate to prove it was more than just his memory that made him a good detective.
Neil was proud of his achievements as a detective. His rating had never been anything other than exemplary, his record showed not a single failure to meet a deadline, and not one of his cases, if taken to court, had ever been returned as not guilty.
Neil was not just a good detective; he was going to be a great one. Proving that to Artimus should be a piece of cake.
Hersch and Whitlow were an upmarket estate agency in Belsize Park. Known for shipping the highest volume of housing in the area, they were well established as the agent of choice for many big-name companies and private property owners.
As Neil pulled in to the kerb and strode toward the opulent frontage of the business, he was already surmising he would dislike the sort of people who would work there.
It was not that Neil distrusted estate agents. It was just that here, in the booming middle-ground green belt of London, where price rises outstripped the national average by a factor of five times or more, the people attracted to the work tended to be predatory.
Neil and Artimus waited in what the signage on the walls described as ‘The Tasting Suite’, which was actually just a room full of house details in plastic frames, until a man in a shiny green suit came out to greet them.
“Salutations officers.” the man said, in a rich north-London accent. “How may I avail myself to you today?”
The man before them was tall and handsome, with a firm jaw-line and thick stubble sculpted into a goatee. His skin was slightly olive, his nose large, hinting that at least one of his parents was southern Mediterranean. His suit shimmered under the high-frequency lighting, its colour changing as the man moved. It must have cost a fortune.
“Good afternoon. My name is Detective Townsend of Scotland Yard, Mister…?”
“A pleasure to meet you detective. My name is Fadil Fredericks.”
“Ah.” said Neil, picking up origin. “Was it your mother or father that was from Egypt?”
Fadil looked genuinely surprised. “Mother. My father met her on a business trip to Cairo.”
“I like the office.” said Neil, keeping the conversational flow moving. “It’s an interesting twist.”
“Our customers expect something, different.” said Fadil, proudly looking round.
“I can see they get it.” said Neil, removing the house details from his pocket. “We are actually interested in one of the sales you made a while ago. A house not far from here, number forty-eight Lisburne Road.”
“Ah yes.” said Fadil, knowingly. “After seeing the news, we expected the police would come. It is why I am here. I actually worked both of the recent sales.”
“Both of them?”
“Yes. The history of the property is strange. It sat vacant for many years. It belonged to a woman whose whereabouts were unknown, her family finally getting her classified as legally dead in August of two-thousand and eleven. I think the family ran out of money to renovate or something, because in early two-thousand and thirteen the property was sold through us to a...”
“Mister Grayson.” said Neil, nodding.
“That’s right, I have the artefacts of sale in this folder for you,” said Fadil, handing a bound flip file over. “Mister Michael Grayson bought the property, in cash, on the eighteenth of April two-thousand and thirteen.”
“Michael Grayson?” said Neil, expecting Noel’s name. “Are you sure?”
“I have signatures, legal docs; everything you would expect from a sale. I even remember Mister Grayson from his visits. Scientist of some kind, isn’t he? Mid-forties, beard? I work in an industry where remembering faces and names gets you sales, and I am certain whom I spoke to.”
Neil flipped through the accumulated documents provided by the Fadil. They were extensive, each one showing a signatory of Michael and not Noel Grayson. He handed them to Artimus, as he continued to fathom how this had happened.
Before he could say anything, Artimus spoke up. “If you are so good with faces, can you remember any distinguishing features on Mister Grayson’s face? Anything at all.”
“I’m not sure there were any.” said Fadil.
Neil brought the picture of the Grayson family out of his pocket and showed it to Fadil, indicating Mister Grayson. “Are you sure this is the man who bought that house?”
Fadil stared, his answer by no means certain. “It sure does look like him, but it’s difficult without the beard. Plus, this must be an old picture because they guy I spoke to had far more grey hair.”
“Older?” said Artimus, stroking his chin contemplatively.
“Maybe five years at a guess.”
Artimus held a hand up to Neil, the motion his attempt at apologising for interrupting again. “You said there were two sales, Mister Fredericks. What was the first one?”
Fadil shook his head. “I believe you misunderstand me. Mister Grayson’s was the first purchase. The property was bought from him, again through us, in May of this year. It has me quite confused as to why he is still living there; perhaps he has an arrangement with the new owner.”
“The new owner being?” said Neil, flipping through the file in his hand.
“Clara Robertson MP.” said Fadil, assisting Neil in finding the correct sheet. “It was bought as her second residence whilst she is out of her constituency. The Office of Budgetary Concerns at the Houses of Parliament made all the payments, as you can see.”
Neil turned to Artimus, his face creased in thought. “That makes no sense.”
“Actually,” said Artimus, his eyes flicking from side to side as he licked his lips. “It makes none what-so-ever, which means it could make a whole heap of sense.” Looking up, he stared straight at Fadil. “Did Miss Robertson ever come here in person?”
“She did. I even took her to see the property with me.”
“And what can you tell me about her?”
Fadil rolled his eyes, stretching for a memory. “Calm? Quiet, definitely quiet. She asked very few questions; spoke in a whisper. Spent more time on her phone than she did looking at anything. I didn’t think I’d got the sale until she rung me after I returned to the office.”
“Did you ask the usual closure questions?” said Artimus, taking a step forward and making Fadil back up slightly.
“Yes I did.” said Fadil, his voice now tense. “She said that she thought the house was perfect for her needs; exactly what she was looking for.”
“Did she look in the cellar?” said Artimus, his second stride bringing him almost toe-to-toe with Fadil.
“Er.. I…” said Fadil, his breathing shallow, and his eyes wide.
“The cellar, Mister Fredericks.” said Artimus, raising his voice. “It is vital you remember.”
“I can’t… I don’t think she…”
“See the kitchen,” said Artimus, snapping a hand out and grabbing Fadil’s forearm, “see yourself stood at the counter, watching Miss Robertson on the phone. You are trying to make the sale. You watch her go to the cellar door. Does she open it? Does she even look interested?”
“I… I…” said Fadil, before a calmness washed over him. “No. She never went near the cellar. Didn’t even look.”
“You are certain of this?” said Artimus, letting go of Fadil.
“Yes.” said Fadil, puzzled how he could remember. “She walked into the kitchen talking on her phone, stole a glance at the units, looked through into the living room, and then barged round me and went to go upstairs. How..?”
“Thank you for your time, Mister Fredericks.” said Artimus, shaking him by his hand.
“Mister Crane.” said Fadil, distantly.
Neil followed Artimus out of the office and tried to catch up as he strode towa
rd the car. “Thanks for that. What did we just learn?”
Artimus stopped at the passenger door, distress written all over him. “Mister Blackwater. He asked you to go to him before we went to Clara Robertson if we had any reason to, correct?”
“Yes. I think we have cause now, so should I…”
“Absolutely not.” said Artimus, opening the door. “I think I need a private chat with Henry first.” He rubbed his brow, staring at the floor. “And then I think we need to sit down with Dawn and John.”
Chapter 23
Under the Circumstances