The London Property Boy

By Patrick Brigham

Starting again as a West London estate agent, and in order to reinstate his lost fortunes, Mike moves into the murky and the intriguing world of property dealing. Tangling with the Irish Republican Army en route, he reluctantly finds himself in the hands of MI5, who see him as a possible recruit.
In this right of passage tale, Mike discovers a variety of available women, but in his quest to find happiness, he meets and marries the mysterious Communist academic, Nadezhda Antova.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patrick Brigham
• Release date: Nov 11, 2019
• ISBN: 9781370617975

Patrick Brigham

Born in Berkshire, England to an old Reading family, after attending an English Public School and a stint at college, the author Patrick Brigham went into real estate. After the economic crash of 1989, he licked his wounds, wrote two books and in 1993 decided to finally abandon London, the UK's casino economy and moved to Sofia, Bulgaria. The natural home of political intrigue, Communism and the conspiracy theory, Bulgaria proved to be quite a challenge, but for many of its citizens, the transition was also very painful. Despite this, Patrick Brigham personally managed to survive these political changes and now lives peacefully in Northern Greece, writing mystery novels. A writer for many years, he has recently written four 'good' crime fiction books, including, Herodotus: The Gnome of Sofia, Judas Goat: The Kennet Narrow Boat Mystery, Abduction: An Angel over Rimini, and finally The Dance of Dimitrios. Confirming that the truth is very often stranger than fiction, Eastern Europe has proved to be Patrick Brigham’s inspiration for writing good mystery books. Much of his writing has been influenced by 20 years spent in the Balkans and the plethora of characters in his writing, are redolent of many past communist intrigues in Bulgaria. Recently Patrick has delved into literary fiction, with his new book, Goddess of The Rainbow, a very Greek story involving a rain deluge, and how flooding changes people, moves the finger of fate, and causes us to reflect on our lives. A series of short stories, they all happen in the Greek town of Orestiada. Stories which simultaneously interlink and become a part of the whole, centre around Iris – the local DHL courier – who in Greek mythology is not only Goddess of The Rainbow, but also the Messenger of The Gods, thereby connecting the individual tales of this sixteen chapter book. All that and more; stories which come so beautifully together in the last chapter –fascinating and enchanting – which can be read and enjoyed individually, but put together, serve to make the whole novel greater than its component parts. This year's novel is a stand-alone tale called The London Property Boy. Based on twenty years in the London property business, Patrick brings to life the excitement and intrigue of property dealing. With the fast buck and living high on the wing, comes disaster and the 80s draws to a close with another property crash.

Book preview

THE LONDON PROPERTY BOY

PATRICK BRIGHAM

Evros Editions

Copyright 2019 Patrick Brigham

Cover Design: Louisa P Brigham

Except for review purposes, this publication shall not be transmitted, copied, modified, duplicated or reproduced, in full or in part, or in any manner without the written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

Other books by Patrick Brigham:

Herodotus: The Gnome of Sofia

Judas Goat: The Kennet Narrow Boat Mystery

Abduction: An Angel Over Rimini

The Dance of Dimitrios

Goddess of the Rainbow

Judicial Review: A Play

FOR

Matthew Brigham

&

Louisa Brigham

On Hammersmith Bridge

We tread the banks

Through early morning mists

Past history that stands

The twists and turns of time

That rain-soaked willows of the night

Can only tell of

And then the sun sits neatly on the tide

And brings God’s warmth

To blinking eyes

Which see the dawn rise

In a while

Swirling past

The bric-a-brac

And the dustbins of the night

The river finds new purpose

And those who walk these paths

When the day’s begun

Can only speak of life

Now the morning light

Has come to Hammersmith Mall

Patrick Brigham

Chapter 1 Total Disaster

Chapter 2 West End Redemption

Chapter 3 Adulterous Kisses

Chapter 4 Divorce

Chapter 5 Child Custody

Chapter 6 Back To Maud’s

Chapter 7 Back To London

Chapter 8 West London Estate Agent

Chapter 9 Ducking And Diving

Chapter 10 A Secret Service

Chapter 11 Remembering Annie

Chapter 12 The Relapse

Chapter 13 Abduction

Chapter 14 The Funeral

Chapter 15 Bacon Sandwiches

Chapter 16 Nadezhda Comes to Stay

Chapter 17 Cunningham

Chapter 18 The Spook’s Return

Chapter 19 Moving On

Chapter 20 Tomorrow & Tomorrow

Chapter 1

Total Disaster

Toothless, with a broken nose and a comprehensive collection of tattoos, Billy O’Bryan was quite a tough guy. Because he was short and very strong, he had excavated the party wall footings of the two West London terrace houses almost single-handedly.

The walls needed to be underpinned to take the weight of an extra floor. The local authority required this measure so that a further floor could be added to the two terrace houses, together with a new mansard roof and balcony.

‘The lads and I have had a talk, guv, and if it will help you we have agreed between us to work for a week for nothing.’

The ganger’s voice, with his rich County Wexford accent, echoed through the empty building, although he had intended his remarks to be confidential. Billy had been in charge of the same team for almost a year and couldn’t remember having worked with such a great bunch of lads before, or for such a good boss.

Mike Mostyne had never heard anything like it before in his life and, fighting back tears, didn’t know what to say for a while. There was a loyalty in these men Mike had never encountered before, or expected.

‘Look, Billy, it’s difficult for me to tell you just how much that would mean to me, but I can’t ask you guys to work for nothing. And to be quite honest, it wouldn’t make much difference to my problems now. But bless you all the same, and I will never forget your offer – that I promise you.’

The stage had been set earlier with an official notice. Delivered by hand to the site on the dot of eight o’clock that morning, it was from Cork Grimshaw, the official receivers. It stated that Mike’s building company was insolvent and that it had been trading with insufficient funds. Consequently, it was being wound up by the shareholders and put into voluntary liquidation, a matter which the attached letter stated quite clearly.

For and on behalf of Berryfold Developments Ltd

THIS IS A LEGAL NOTICE

As from today, all men, plant and equipment, any goods and materials not owned by the Company, and any items belonging to professional or third parties, must be removed from the site forthwith, pending the arrival of the Receiver’s representatives at midday.

Signed: Messrs Cork Grimshaw, Official Receivers

Mike Mostyne had had as much foreknowledge of this event as the working men and contractors. Despite this maddening fact, what was more important was to discover who had been responsible for calling in the receivers and why the whole incident had been such a secret. What had Berryfold’s CEO been up to, and why had Mike not been informed?

He felt completely numbed by the whole episode, and despite frequent attempts at phoning the bank – and Robert Thomas, his partner and the company CEO – he could not get through to them. They could not, or would not, answer their phones. A shiver went down his back, his mouth felt dry and his face felt as though it was made of cardboard. Mike recognised this as the first signs of fear.

In his early thirties, he had worked very hard for ten years, and despite the usual hiccups – mainly caused through the negligence or incompetence of colleagues – he had kept afloat simply through hard graft.

Unlike Robert, his Berryfold partner, over the years Mike had become used to rising early and getting to work by eight each morning. Building work was like that. If you were on site early, most of the day’s planning and problem-solving could easily be achieved, resulting in a smooth-running day. But now his days were numbered.

He put his hand in his pocket in order to find a ten pence piece for the nearby phone box, but there were none to be found; and since there was no phone on the construction site, he decided to go home.

The VW motorhome that he drove, which doubled as his mobile office, felt very lonely in the absence of the reassuring chatter from his usual passenger, ganger Billy O’Bryan. The aroma of his pipe tobacco and the endless stories about his family and their small farm in Ireland had been a regular feature of their return journey to Newbury. That morning, Billy, together with the rest of his team, had decided to have a hearty breakfast at the local café prior to a visit to the local pub, in celebration of their sudden unemployment.

All the weekly employed men, including Billy, had been paid up to date the previous Friday afternoon, so they were not entitled to any further wages. But Mike knew that, as usual, they would have spent most of their cash on booze over the weekend. As he drove down Ladbroke Grove, he had an uneasy feeling that he would never see any of them again. The building business was like that – they were all gypsies in the end.

He drove into Holland Road and turned on the windscreen wipers as a spring shower began rattling on the windscreen and plastic roof of his van. He switched on the radio, but even the sounds of the Righteous Brothers flowing from the door-mounted speakers couldn’t unfreeze the look of defeat which had inhabited his face since receiving the ominous news that morning.

‘You never close your eyes anymore when I kiss your lips…’

The song repeated itself, over and over again, whilst he too kept thinking, over and over again:

All that hard work for all those years. I can’t believe it – all gone in a moment! What an unbelievable waste.

He drove through Shepherd’s Bush, up the Goldhawk Road as far as Chiswick High Road, then turned right. In a daze, he passed Chiswick Green and on down to the roundabout to the M4 motorway. In deep thought, he kept asking himself the same question: Why me?

Robert Thomas, the CEO of Berryfold Developments and Mike’s co-director, was a bit of a Sloane Ranger who Mike had known for a number of years. He lived just off Pont Street in Chelsea, seemed quite wealthy and had been keen to invest in a joint venture. Mike had suspected that most of the money wasn’t his but came from his wife’s family when they sold up and left Kenya some years before.

Typically, Robert had begun the joint venture with great enthusiasm, but as time went by he did less and less, and finally nothing at all. He seemed to spend most of his time hanging around the Ebury Wine Bar, when he wasn’t at Bill Bentley’s Oyster Bar in Swallow Street. Mike could never quite work out whether he did any work at all, despite his everyday work clothes – a smart business suit, Gucci shoes and Cartier watch.

There used to be a lot of people like him hanging around Knightsbridge, talking about property, their other investments and speculating on the rising bank rate. But not recently, not since the property crash.

Although it was clear to everyone that UK property was in recession – mainly due to a contrived oil crisis – Mike knew that they could not simply stop building, and he told his partner why.

‘Look, Robert, I know things are bad, but a building which is completed, almost by definition, is worth more than one which is not – and properly painted and decorated, it will be far easier to sell. The banks will support us; after all, it’s in their interest for it to be finished for collateral purposes because it’s the company’s only asset.’ He remembered how the tears had welled up in Robert’s eyes and how he had started to shout at Mike. It was during one of his rare visits to the Lancaster Road development.

‘It’s all your fault anyway. The building costs have gone over the top and it’s all due to your incompetence. I know I lost some money in a currency deal that went wrong, but it wasn’t just that. I trusted you and you let me down.’ Mike was exasperated and decided to set a few things straight.

‘You seem to forget that it’s my house propping up our finances at the moment; and you also conveniently forget George, your so-called bloody architect. Remember, the old family friend? A man who was obsessed with changing everything each time he made a site visit? It was madness using him.’

Mike continued, ‘You also seem to have forgotten that, according to our contract with the bank, we are under his professional control; and despite my being Director of Construction, I am still answerable to him.’ But Robert’s self-pity was unending.

‘That’s not the point and you know it. I didn’t ask you to prop up the deal, although in some ways I hope you do lose your house in the process, because I blame you for absolutely everything that has gone wrong. I don’t know what my wife is going to say, or her father,’ Robert said.

‘Come on, Robert, God knows how many sets of revised drawings George has given me over the last twelve months – and it’s cost a fortune. Every time he’s appeared on site, he’s changed his mind about something or other. Most of those nominated and overpriced contractors he insisted we use – who were probably paying him backhanders – have let us down. You can’t put all the blame on my shoulders. I am definitely not the sole cause of a slump in the property market either. I think Prime Minister Edward Heath had something to do with that, don’t you? And the bloody useless Conservative Party… I didn’t cause all the political chaos single-handedly, Robert – how could I?’

Robert ran snivelling out of the building, pushing past the carpenters who were hanging the front door to that particular ground floor apartment and who had heard every word. They had almost completed their second fixing and were attaching the door furniture, architraves and mouldings.

Pike, the mouthy carpenter, who had been listening intently to the altercation, said to Mike, when the pinstriped figure had finally left the building, ‘I wouldn’t let someone talk to me like that, guv. He’s a bloody idiot.’

Then, standing in the main entrance as Robert left the building, both Pike and his partner Finch laughed and pointed at him as he drove away in his Range Rover.

Pike shouted after him, ‘What a bleeding J Arthur!’ And Mike knew that Pike was absolutely right about Robert Thomas – that was precisely what he was.

Returning to reality, he saw the M4 sign for the Newbury turnoff, realising that he must have been in a kind of daze for over an hour and a half. Driving towards the town centre, it suddenly occurred to him that he had no idea what he was doing, or where he was going.

‘Do you know the way to San Jose? I’ve been away so long…’

The unmistakable voice of Dionne Warwick filled the vehicle. Turning right off the bypass, Mike drove into the town centre.

He found a parking spot in the old Market Place next to the Corn Exchange and got out, putting on his donkey jacket and locking up the van. He then walked across the square, over the bridge into Northbrook Street, gazing down at the Kennet & Avon Canal as he passed and the little antique shop that lay back off the road.

It was half past two in the afternoon when he walked into the bank, and the staff were looking forward to closing time. They all knew Mike and looked rather sheepish as he stood by the enquiries desk. Asking for the manager, it was a few minutes before he agreed to see him.

‘I’m sorry, Mike, it’s not me, it’s head office.’ The manager Roy Simpkins looked embarrassed as he tried to extract himself from a five-year friendship and establish some sort of corporate responsibility for his actions. Obviously not a happy man, Mike tried to express himself as clearly as possible and without getting angry.

‘Look, Roy, I don’t know or really care what has been going on with Berryfold after this morning. All I really want to know is how I personally stand with the bank. I can tell you right now that my only real concern is for my wife Lavender, our son Mark and their security. Nothing else.’

‘Unfortunately, Mike, you gave a director’s guarantee to Berryfold and put your house and other assets up as collateral. We hold the mortgage on your house, and the bank has every right to call in your guarantee – which they will inevitably do – at any time. This means that you could quite easily become personally bankrupt. I’m sorry.’ Mike sat white-faced, in total disbelief, as the cold hard facts were presented to him.

‘So, I know you didn’t expect this today, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you for your chequebook, banker’s card and credit cards. Head office has told me that they will not honour any more of your cheques.’

Mike reached into his pocket and pulled out his Williams & Glyn chequebook, and from his wallet he produced his bank card and credit cards. He tossed them onto the manager’s desk and sat back, staring at a silver-framed photograph of the Simpkins family on a nearby bookcase.

‘What can I do, Roy? I’ve always banked with Williams & Glyn, and before that, when it was the National Bank. What am I going to do for money? How am I going to survive the next few weeks? I haven’t got any savings or anything to fall back on.’

The last remark from Roy Simpkins to his defaulting account holder was: ‘I’m sorry, Mike, I’m afraid that’s your problem. I just wish it hadn’t happened this way, that’s all.’ Then, with a wry grin on his face but in a good-natured way, ‘I suppose you could always sign on.’

As he went to leave the office, Mike turned and said, ‘That’s okay, Roy, I understand; it’s not down to you.’

Somehow he felt like the victim of an old-fashioned execution – being asked by the axeman for forgiveness prior to the fatal blow – so Mike doubted Simpkins’ depth of remorse. In any case, for Simpkins it was simply a matter of closing down another account; to Mike it seemed to be the end of everything.

Parking his VW outside his four-storey family home, he noticed the pretty flowers hanging from the first floor balcony, and the potted plants his wife Lavender had arranged the previous Sunday morning. He remembered watching her as she’d worked on the balcony, and noticing the sweet scent on the breeze which wafted through the window.

***

He had been reading The Guardian, crunching toast and marmalade, drinking instant coffee and talking to his son Mark, who sat on the floor playing with a large antique-looking American tin train. It had a light on the front which blinked on and off, and a siren which sounded as the locomotive went along. The batteries had run down, and it was getting slower and slower the more Mark played with it.

‘Do you like my train, Daddy? Duncan gave it to me. Isn’t it nice?’

Climbing back in through the window of the balcony, Lavender had remarked, ‘Mike, you know Duncan, that lecturer on my teaching course. I told you about him the other day. The one who thinks he’s wonderful but is really only a soft touch.’

***

He opened the front door and entered, dropping his keys into an ashtray next to the trill phone on the little hall table. The house was empty and silent, so he went into the ground floor drawing room and sat on the window seat overlooking the street.

In a somewhat mercenary state of mind, he looked around the room with the familiar eye of a valuer. For some reason the house had suddenly stopped feeling like a home and had lost its welcome. He tried to think of things he could sell quickly, in order to get some cash together, when his eyes focused on his beautiful gleaming Broadwood grand piano standing in the corner of the room. It wasn’t just a piece of furniture to him, despite the beautiful French marquetry and veneer of the case; it was also a perfect instrument. When he was at his boarding school many years before, he had dreamed of being a jazz pianist. Talented, he thought nothing of practising for two or more hours each day, much to the annoyance of some.

Later on, he would play in local clubs and bars with his trio, and occasionally as a quintet with two army bandsmen from Twickenham on tenor and soprano saxophone. But that was in the past, the dream having evaporated when the hard realities of life had started to appear and food had to be put on the table.

He wandered about the room, looking at various belongings, paintings and prints he had acquired over the years, antiques he had discovered and renovated. Then there was his prize possession, which lay hidden in the lower ground floor garage.

A bright red 1945 MG TC sports car, it was in pristine condition with shiny chrome-work and a wonderful little engine, which growled when Mike accelerated along the Newbury bypass. His pride and joy, and originally bought for his wife Lavender, but as with many things Lavender had turned her nose up at it, preferring to drive the family Volvo estate.

Now all the family toys would have to go, and they would have to start again, at the beginning, like a painful game of Snakes & Ladders. Mike had always wanted a proper home, and although now forced to see his life’s work in terms of money – which was very depressing for him – he knew there would be worse to come.

Despite his depression and disillusionment, the property developer in him attempted to keep a level head. There was one property he owned which remained unencumbered by any bank charges. He had bought it some years before and almost forgotten about it. The Reading property had been let as rooms and, although it only produced a small weekly income, it would be enough to cover some of the household accounts, and, more importantly, it would be in cash.

The VW, which was in his name, would also have to go, as would the trusty split-windscreen VW pickup truck the workmen had used. Both had given tremendous service in the past and were two of his best buys. Which brought him back to his final and treasured family toy – his Freeman 21 cruiser, which he kept moored up on the Kennet & Avon Canal; this would also have to go.

Now showing its age, in previous summers it had given his family countless happy days floating along the canal. With long weekends, it was a great way to get away from nagging business problems and the constant telephone calls.

The little boat had everything they needed because it was more like a floating caravan. They would moor up by a canal winding hole or weir and, as darkness approached, watch the ducks and moorhens, and the fish jumping for mayflies and other insects. This would now come to an end; and although he knew Mark would be disappointed, it was Lavender who represented his greatest fear.

There was a malevolent conniving Bolshevik hidden deep inside Lavender, which existed in juxtaposition to both the rich and the poor, the British class system and, in particular, his family. She seemed to despise the very lifestyle she appeared to enjoy, her left-wing working class upbringing having left an indelible mark on her. How she looked and how she felt were at odds – the two things very difficult to reconcile – and it was confusing considering her opulent lifestyle and copious spending. Mike often felt her angst was directed at him; after all, he came from an old Newbury family which had been in business in the town for over a hundred years.

Perhaps it was because Mike himself was oblivious to class distinctions – it was the ’70s, after all, a time when everyone thought of themselves as being upwardly mobile. People liked to present themselves as self-made men or women whilst coming from humble means, something which Monty Python’s Flying Circus occasionally lampooned.

We were so poor we had to live in a cesspit and suck stones for breakfast.

Mike would have none of that, and happily defined himself as a cross between a Tory anarchist and a middle-class hippy – something he was never far away from as he permanently dressed in jeans, cowboy boots and a bomber jacket. He had no intention of becoming another effete pinstripe-suited layabout, who inhabited the world of Robert Thomas, nor one of his pretentious cohorts with their exaggerated plumy accents. A toff he was not, but he could still trace his family back to William the Conqueror, where others might have some difficulty getting past the Second World War.

That evening he confronted Lavender with the bad news. There was no compassion or understanding, just a lot of I told you so whilst she flitted around the kitchen doing pretty well nothing of any significance.

Mark sat at the tiny kitchen table, listening but understanding very little, as he scribbled with his crayons. Every so often he would look up at the arguing couple, as if he shouldn’t be a witness to the grown-up world, one he seldom felt a part of anyway.

‘Go to your room!’ she barked at him. ‘Daddy and I have some important things to discuss.’ And then, taking the moral high ground, Lavender once more proceeded with a tirade of I told you so without the slightest interest in the facts or the exact details, and she enjoyed it too.

‘I warned you about that creep Robert Thomas, and that bank manager of yours, Simpkins. They were too smarmy for my taste. I didn’t like them and they didn’t like me.’

What the hell liking her had to do with it was quite baffling to Mike – her narcissistic inclination emerged during the summing up of her husband’s glaring deficiencies. It was as if their financial crisis had nothing to do with her, other than to intrude into her cushy life and cause her considerable inconvenience. She seemed oblivious to the glaring consequences of their recent misfortunes and seemed clearly incapable of visualising the result of the crisis. In fact, the whole diatribe seemed mainly about her, and Mark’s and Mike’s names weren’t mentioned once as she spewed out her grievances.

Mike took the stairs to the first floor dining room and sat on one of the carver dining chairs. Lavender followed him up there in order to deliver further well aimed rebukes.

‘I don’t think you quite realise how serious all this is, Lavender. For a start, you’re going to have to change your spending habits, and your entire lifestyle as well. The only