Read Online The Water Room by Christopher Fowler - Free Book Online

half-buried memory and expose it to the light. Something here was comforting, yet best forgotten, a temporal paradox only serving to prove that you couldn’t go back.
    Kallie let the curtain fall. The front door opened and quickly closed. Heather came in with a smug smile on her face.
    ‘If you don’t ask, you don’t get.’ She grabbed Kallie’s arm. ‘His name’s Ben Singh. Sounds like a character from
Treasure Island,
doesn’t it? But he’s her only surviving relative and he’s going to let the place go. He’s not doing it up to make money—he wants a very fast sale, even if it means going below the market price.’ She gave a muted scream of excitement. ‘I’m sure you could get in there, Kallie. The house could be yours. You’d finally have independence. You’d have somewhere you could call home.’
    Kallie thought of the dark windows and doors behind which a woman had died, and smiled back uncertainly.
    6
----
    TAKING THE PLUNGE
    ‘I don’t understand how you got my mobile number.’
    Paul Farrow set his beer back on the bar and studied the two men perched on stools before him. They had announced themselves as Garrett and Moss, sounding like an old music-hall act, but were involved in property. They represented a matched pair, a modern-day version of Victorian Toby jugs, with their grey suits, sclerotic cheeks and thinning fair hair, pink ties knotted loosely, stomachs forcing gaps between the buttons of identical blue-striped shirts. The heavier jug, Garrett, wore rings made from gold coins. As a plea for credibility, the look was singularly unsuccessful. Paul wore torn Diesel jeans and a black sweater, the regalia of the media man, regarded with disdain by men in cufflinks. They were doomed to be enemies before anyone had opened their mouth.
    ‘I’ve been in touch with Mr Singh on a number of previous occasions,’ said Garrett. ‘Obviously, properties like the house belonging to Mr Singh’s sister are highly prized in this area because of their proximity to the new King’s Cross rail link. We have a lot of European interest.’
    ‘So Mr Singh came to you for a sale.’ Paul fingered the beaded sandalwood strap on his wrist as he studied the two men, taking a fantastic dislike to them.
    ‘Not exactly.’ Garrett fidgeted atop his stool while he sought a way to shift the facts into a better light. ‘I’ve been trying to impress on him the importance of achieving the maximum financial benefit from his inheritance, and heard you were in touch—’
    ‘Bit aggressive, these selling tactics, aren’t they?’
    ‘Pro-activity in the marketplace, pal.’
    Paul sipped his free pint, knowing that he was about to discover its price. ‘He doesn’t want to sell to you, does he?’
    Moss stepped in. He appeared to be sweating, even though the bar of the Pineapple pub on Leverton Street was cold. Theresa, the barmaid, was keeping a watchful eye on them; spotting fights before they happened was a talent that came with her job.
    ‘Listen, sonny, we’re in the middle of delicate negotiations with Mr Singh and the last thing any of us needs is you coming along and upsetting them.’
    ‘Sorry, I missed what it is you do,’ said Paul sharply, waving his forefinger between them. ‘You’re not part of this guy’s agency but you’re working with him—how does that operate?’
    ‘I’m the property developer.’ Moss had meant this as a declaration of pride; he might have announced that he was a child molester. ‘Mr Singh stands to make a lot of money by selling at the right time to the right person.’
    ‘Which you think is you. And you plan to divide his sister’s property into how many flats?’
    ‘We haven’t decided yet. They’ll be for executives, you know—beech floors, slate kitchen counters, dormer windows. King’s Cross in ten minutes, Europe in a couple of hours. Camden Council is buying up everything it can get its hands on. It’s a gold rush. There’s big money to be