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Authors: Phil Rickman
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Mahonie.’
Merrily found she’d sat down.
‘Hysterical nonsense. Didn’t give me her name. Said it was a disgrace that we were offering a so-called service we were too weak to expedite. She didn’t use those words, but that was what she seemed to be saying. About ten minutes later, there was a second call, I think from the same woman. Perhaps hoping you would answer this time. When she heard it was me again, she just laughed.
They
laughed. Two or three of them, I think. And then they were gone. Mobile, I imagine.’
‘I see.’
‘I rang 1471. They hadn’t bothered to conceal the number.’ Sophie slid a square of paper, a Post-it note, across the desk. ‘That’s the number, in case.’
‘Of what?’
‘I don’t know.’ Sophie’s hand was out again. ‘Keys.’
11. Bang!
Lang/Copper weren’t the biggest estate agents in Hereford. Their office in Bridge Street, a three-minute walk from the cathedral, had darkwood furniture and just the one small window halfway up the wall, with old pictures of farms, mostly. Doubtless the same office they’d occupied when young Geoffrey Unsworth joined the firm in the 1950s. Maybe some of the same pictures, brown as cave-paintings.
Mr Unsworth wore a dark suit with a waistcoat. A pocket watch with a chain might have completed him.
He pushed the yellowing particulars towards Merrily. He’d had them ready.
A unique, architect-designed detached house in a third of an acre of secluded grounds, yet close to Hereford city centre
.
‘It really
was
secluded back then,’ Mr Unsworth said. ‘So much more woodland overlooking the city in those days.’
He didn’t look eighty. His flat hair was still mainly brown, his face oddly unlined. Maybe the sepia air in here had mummifying qualities. He brought out a name.
‘Harry Clifton?’
Merrily shook her head.
‘Architect and property developer. Mostly commercial buildings. Look rather awful now, the ones that are left, all that concrete and glass and sliding metal doors.’
They were alone in the office, although there was a second, smaller desk with a woman’s coat over the chair back. Mr Unsworth tilted a smile.
‘I haven’t seen that house lately. Well, not inside. Is it wearing well?’
‘Erm… I’d say it probably was.’ The house grinned savagely in her mind; she stiffened against a shudder. ‘I don’t even know what it’s called. I was just told to look out for the new house. Which, of course, it isn’t any more, but…’
‘That’s right.’ Mr Unsworth leaned back in his armchair, in a headmasterly way. ‘That’s what it was called. The New House.’
‘Oh.’
‘Harry Clifton came here from Birmingham in about 1960. Very much on the make. Thought he could put one over on the Hereford yokels. Bought a lot of barns for conversion, re-sold them with residential plans.’
‘The fashion for barns… I suppose it would be in its early days back then.’
‘Indeed. A man ahead of his time. How all
this
came about… he did some work for a rather cash-strapped farmer, Johnny Morgan, who owned land backing on to Aylestone Hill. Johnny thought he’d get permission for a small amount of housing on some ground on the lower fringe. Tide him over his cash-flow sort of thing. Thought planning was in his pocket and commissioned Clifton to produce quite detailed plans. But there were local protests and - quite shocking in those days - planning permission was unexpectedly
not forthcoming
.’
‘Gosh.’
‘Johnny Morgan had jumped the gun and was left owing Clifton a considerable amount of money. Which he didn’t have. Clifton was, of course, unsympathetic. Forced Johnny to pay, as it were, in kind.’
With a hint of professional relish, Mr Unsworth recounted Clifton’s hard bargain, which had led to him acquiring, as settlement, a few acres of what he knew would one day prove to be prime building land.
‘
Well
. Considerable bitterness, Mrs Watkins.
Considerable
bitterness. Part a farmer from
Merrily found she’d sat down.
‘Hysterical nonsense. Didn’t give me her name. Said it was a disgrace that we were offering a so-called service we were too weak to expedite. She didn’t use those words, but that was what she seemed to be saying. About ten minutes later, there was a second call, I think from the same woman. Perhaps hoping you would answer this time. When she heard it was me again, she just laughed.
They
laughed. Two or three of them, I think. And then they were gone. Mobile, I imagine.’
‘I see.’
‘I rang 1471. They hadn’t bothered to conceal the number.’ Sophie slid a square of paper, a Post-it note, across the desk. ‘That’s the number, in case.’
‘Of what?’
‘I don’t know.’ Sophie’s hand was out again. ‘Keys.’
11. Bang!
Lang/Copper weren’t the biggest estate agents in Hereford. Their office in Bridge Street, a three-minute walk from the cathedral, had darkwood furniture and just the one small window halfway up the wall, with old pictures of farms, mostly. Doubtless the same office they’d occupied when young Geoffrey Unsworth joined the firm in the 1950s. Maybe some of the same pictures, brown as cave-paintings.
Mr Unsworth wore a dark suit with a waistcoat. A pocket watch with a chain might have completed him.
He pushed the yellowing particulars towards Merrily. He’d had them ready.
A unique, architect-designed detached house in a third of an acre of secluded grounds, yet close to Hereford city centre
.
‘It really
was
secluded back then,’ Mr Unsworth said. ‘So much more woodland overlooking the city in those days.’
He didn’t look eighty. His flat hair was still mainly brown, his face oddly unlined. Maybe the sepia air in here had mummifying qualities. He brought out a name.
‘Harry Clifton?’
Merrily shook her head.
‘Architect and property developer. Mostly commercial buildings. Look rather awful now, the ones that are left, all that concrete and glass and sliding metal doors.’
They were alone in the office, although there was a second, smaller desk with a woman’s coat over the chair back. Mr Unsworth tilted a smile.
‘I haven’t seen that house lately. Well, not inside. Is it wearing well?’
‘Erm… I’d say it probably was.’ The house grinned savagely in her mind; she stiffened against a shudder. ‘I don’t even know what it’s called. I was just told to look out for the new house. Which, of course, it isn’t any more, but…’
‘That’s right.’ Mr Unsworth leaned back in his armchair, in a headmasterly way. ‘That’s what it was called. The New House.’
‘Oh.’
‘Harry Clifton came here from Birmingham in about 1960. Very much on the make. Thought he could put one over on the Hereford yokels. Bought a lot of barns for conversion, re-sold them with residential plans.’
‘The fashion for barns… I suppose it would be in its early days back then.’
‘Indeed. A man ahead of his time. How all
this
came about… he did some work for a rather cash-strapped farmer, Johnny Morgan, who owned land backing on to Aylestone Hill. Johnny thought he’d get permission for a small amount of housing on some ground on the lower fringe. Tide him over his cash-flow sort of thing. Thought planning was in his pocket and commissioned Clifton to produce quite detailed plans. But there were local protests and - quite shocking in those days - planning permission was unexpectedly
not forthcoming
.’
‘Gosh.’
‘Johnny Morgan had jumped the gun and was left owing Clifton a considerable amount of money. Which he didn’t have. Clifton was, of course, unsympathetic. Forced Johnny to pay, as it were, in kind.’
With a hint of professional relish, Mr Unsworth recounted Clifton’s hard bargain, which had led to him acquiring, as settlement, a few acres of what he knew would one day prove to be prime building land.
‘
Well
. Considerable bitterness, Mrs Watkins.
Considerable
bitterness. Part a farmer from
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