Not Accumulating Here - Friday

‘Here comes the sleazeball.’ Announces assistant manage T, with distaste. We all look across the high street and, unprompted, three people chorus: ‘You got anything for me?’ in perfect sneering unison.

I learnt early in the industry to dislike property speculators. Estate agents have a bad reputation - some of them deservedly so - but I knew instinctively I wasn’t going to like the predatory, slightly underhand tactics of your local dealer. 

A good agent had his client’s interest at heart, and it’s always been a matter of pride to me to extract the best possible price for my vendor. Its why I rage at property porn programmes where the photogenic, totally unqualified, presenter tells the viewers in a stage whisper, ‘the agent tells me they’ll take much less than they’re asking.’ Bad agent. Period.

‘How come we never sell him anything?’ Asks trainee F, gormlessly. You can pay for a expensive private education, but a polished turd is still a turd.

‘Because he always wants an angle.’ Explained negotiator S patiently. She’s too good for this business.

‘And he’ll want to buy at under market value, to make a fat profit.’ Adds T.

‘But he says he’ll give us the property back to sell,’ persist F. ‘Then we get two commissions.’

‘It’s called a secret profit and it’s illegal if the owner is unaware of the implications.’ I snap testily.

‘Bit like flogging crap policies to buyers and working harder for them than the vendor.’ Adds T, nodding towards fat finance-fiddler M’s office. He’s had a couple in there for over an hour, could be a lengthy fact-finder form, or they could be selling pies.

‘If you sell a speculator a property a normal punter could buy, not one that can’t be mortgaged or with structural difficulties,’ continues S coaching F with the patience of a saint. ‘By definition you are underselling it.’

‘Yeh, but you get it back to sell when he’s splashed some emulsion around and put new doors on the old kitchen carcass.’ Persists F. 

That’s why less scrupulous agents sell - often off-market without giving genuine buyers the chance -  to their local pet speculator and if he’ll meet them in the pub later, with a fat brown envelope stuffed with fifty pound notes, so much the better. The only back-hander I’ve ever taken in this business, was from an angry buyer who’d been beaten to a house in a contract race. It stung but I didn't sue - its hard enough to get a lawyer to call you back as it is…

 ‘He’s coming in.’ Says T, as the man in question crosses the street and makes a beeline for our door.

‘Doesn’t take a hint does he.’ States T rhetorically.

‘Don’t offer him anything.’ I mutter through a ventriloquist's smile.

‘Morning guys.’ Announces the speculator as he bowls in to the office, all designer jeans and expensive dentistry. I detest him. And here it comes…..

‘Got anything for me?’

‘Not today.’ Says T, almost too quickly. But not quickly enough for me. I try not to catch the man’s eye, but these characters have hides like a rhinoceros. He moves to my place at the spare desk.

‘Come on,’ he cajoles. ‘You must have something with an earn in it. There’ll be cheeky drink in it for everyone.’

What the f**k is that? I want to demand. A bottle of Sunny Delight with a monkey face on the front? It’s insulting to think, this odious oik thinks I’ll take his money and betray a client. But then he’s clearly finding plenty who will.

‘Deceased estate, need a quick sale. Old lady wants in to a retirement flat and doesn’t know how much her gaff is worth, maybe?’ Persists the man with an over-bright grin. I’m going to be so tempted to key his Range Rover the next time I see it bumped up the kerb outside a cheap refurbishment, with a rival’s For Sale board outside. 

I’m saved when the man’s top-of-the-range I-Phone rings and he starts talking loudly about a conditional contract and a holding deposit. He offers an exaggerated, call me, mime before leaving the office in a fug of cloying after shave.

No chance.

Not Now Not Ever - Monday

‘Oh no, look what the weather flushed out.’ Groans T my assistant manager. 

We all look out the rain-streaked office window to see a dodgy duo on the far side of the street, going into the opposition’s office.

‘Who are they?’ Asks trainee F craning to see the pair as they disappear inside.

‘You’ll find out soon enough.’ Says negotiator S flatly - something she can never really be.

Property speculators - or ‘speckies’ as they’re known in the trade tend to surface, like turds in a waterlogged sewer, whenever there’s a hint of an upturn in the market. Praying on the weak or easily corruptible they look for homes where the owner is unaware of any hidden development potential, elderly owners who succumb to a tap on the door and think they’re saving estate agents fees - and dishonest agents who would compromise their integrity for a cash payment no questions asked. I hate them

‘So what’s their angle?’ persists F as I keep half an eye on the other agent over the road, the longer the pair are in there the more likely a deal is being done. 

‘They want an inside angle and an earner off the back of our vendors.’ Answers T.

‘Scumbags.’ Pronounces S eyes flashing like fire.

‘Why would we do that?’ Asks F naively.

‘For a brown envelope of course.’ Replies T.

The silence lasts until it becomes uncomfortable. F’s face is screwed up in concentration and I can see him looking at the stationery cupboard quizzically. 

‘With cash inside it.’ I tell the fool curtly. ‘They want you to stitch your vendor up and to undersell so they can make a profit.’

‘That’s not right.’ Says F indignantly.

I tell him he’s 100% right and remind everyone forcefully, that any hint of impropriety and they’ll be summarily dismissed and I mean it. I’d sort out the collateral damage with Human Resources no matter how short of verbal, written and final warnings I’d be. 

I was offered my first ‘backhander’ three months in to the job and, market dictating, have turned them down on a regular basis ever since. Some of my contemporaries have not been so scrupulous, some have done very well out of their dishonesty, with rumours of five figure payments and in one case a villa in Spain, which with any luck is worth about half what it was now.

‘Here they come.’ States S looking out the window. I look up to see the oily twosome, both in Gestapo-like long leather coats, both with their smartphones glued to their ears.

‘You’d think it would be easier just to turn round and talk to each other rather than using 3G.’ Says T to chuckles.

‘Probably have free minutes to use up.’ Says S.

‘Not many in here.’ I snap sternly. ‘I want nothing to do with them, no matter what they’re offering.’

The pair finish their calls together, adding to our theory, then look across warily at our fascia. They remind me of Blair and Bush at their most odious. They can search my register all they like but there’s no evidence of anything underhand, although if I had a weapon of mass destruction I’d be sending it their way before they crossed the street. Ex Prime Ministers and Presidents aside, there can’t have been a more creepy coupling since Jimmy Savile introduced Gary Glitter on Top of The Pops.

‘I reckon they’re weighing up whether to come in or not.’ predicts S.

‘Probably wondering if you’re still here.’ Says T looking at me pointedly. 

Sadly I am, where else would I go?

I watch as a decision is made and they head our way. I offer a silent prayer for a pensioner in a runaway automatic car, but they make the pavement unscathed. 

‘Have you got anything for us?’ Mimics T in an effete voice as the pair push the door open, offer unconvincing smiles and repeat the exact words T predicted.

‘Nothing.’ I say abruptly.

‘Just something with a bit of margin in it?’ Persists the older man. The implication, one I dislike, is that I wouldn’t have pointed out to my client the full potential of their home.

I show them the door.

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