‘I’ve not been to this block.’ Says trainee F, as we
cruise the meagre car park for a sought after visitor’s space.
‘You’ve not missed much.’ I tell F as I look at the
temptingly empty disabled bay, then see a suspicious face at the lobby window
and think better of it. Reversing out, I sense the watcher still following my
movements. I know him and he isn’t the most welcoming, especially since the
bean counter boss stopped me claiming for supplying bribery bottles at
Christmas.
‘How old is this place?’ Asks F, as ten minutes later and
parked in a resident only street, we head back towards the gloomy lump of
pre-cast concrete. I glance up at the looming building, one where at least two
elderly owners and a clumsy window cleaner have plunged into the undersized car
park, then tell him about the mid-sixties heritage, the short lease and the
expensive service charges. ‘Plus you have to pay for a cantankerous little
live-in Hitler.’ I tell F as we get to the entrance door and see the Porter
looking at us in distain.
‘You lot got an appointment?’ Asks the man with a uniform
from the Army and Navy surplus store and a hat worthy of camp 1970s disco
combo, The Village People.
‘Number 45.’ I tell the man, waving my clipboard in
confirmation. He’d have opened the door for a resident and even pushed the lift
button but he’s pissy because we no longer hand out festive whisky. Rumour has
it several less scrupulous – or financially flusher – agents give him a
backhander for every probate sale he funnels their way. The Porter is usually
the first to know of a death in the block, they see the doctor, the undertaker
or hear the dull thud on the car park tarmac.
‘You know those parking spaces are only for visitors
don’t you?’ Presses the man ungraciously, waving at the two occupied slots I
couldn’t use. ‘Not for tradesmen.’
I could engage him in a fractious conversation about just
who is lower down the service industry ladder but I’m already running late,
plus I’m not sure I’d win.
‘He was a bit of an arse.’ Comments F as we move round
the corner and I press the call button on one of a bank of ancient lifts,
warily.
‘Give someone a little power and it goes to their
comedy-hatted head.’ I tell F distractedly. I’m still contemplating the chilly
stairwell as the lifts here have a habit of breaking down. Apparently one of
our competitors spent ninety minutes between floors with an incontinent
pensioner before the engineer came out. It wasn’t pleasant – or entirely
spillage free. The trouble is, we’re talking fourth floor and I don’t want to
arrive flustered and wheezing, like an actual resident.
‘I don’t like lifts much.’ Confides F as the carriage
sways upwards accompanied by ominous creaking sounds. You and me both pal, I
think as we come to a halt with a judder and the doors part unevenly. I grab
F’s arm and motion towards the indicator light. We’re only on floor 2. An
elderly man, with one of those shopping trolleys on wheels, moves forward and
asks. ‘Are you going down?’ Faster than you think sir.
He gets in anyway, for the company I guess, and we
continue heavenwards. The awkward silence doesn’t last long as the old codger
enquires brightly. ‘Undertakers or estate agents?’ I enlighten him and think
perhaps I should really loose the old school fabric tape and go digital, but he
presses on with some sales lead gold.
‘You should get in with Charlie on reception.’ Suggest
the garrulous pensioner as we reach our floor. ‘He could tip you the wink when
another one croaks.’ I make a non-committal answer as he adds perceptively.
‘He’s a bit of a chancer though. Probably want cash in hand.’
‘Not sure I could live in one of these blocks.’ Says F as
we reach the door and I swiftly jot down the two flat numbers, with owners in
hospital, our lift companion mentioned. ‘Mind you,’ F concludes as I ring the
bell. ‘If the price is right.’
He’s getting the hang of it.
2 comments:
I think we've got our man. Will you come quietly and turn yourself in or will I have to do it for you?
http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/news/crime/burglars-posed-as-property-agents-to-raid-flats-7618574.html
Close but no cigar Hotairmail. I have my reputation to consider..
S.A.
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