Bloody London Read Online Free PDF Page B

piled on top of each other. Enough stuff for a mansion was crammed into the room; her life had shrivelled, was boxed in now, all that was left this lousy cluttered room.
    I looked around and said, “Miss Havisham’s parlor.”
    Mrs Pascoe, who sat on the edge of a straight chair, her legs tucked neatly together, raised her eyebrow very slightly.
    I added, “Yeah, I read books too.”
    â€œI’m sure you do. Did you get what you wanted?”
    I shrugged and said, “You got anything for me? Some names? Some kind of list?”
    â€œNames?”
    â€œPeople who wanted apartments in this building.”
    She got up and looked around. “I hope the bloody nephew’s coming to get her stuff. I hope to Christ he’s got some sense and we can do business with him. At least we’ll be able to clean this place out,” she said. “Don’t look so shocked, Mr Cohen. It’s been hell dealing with her rubbish. Literally. We’ve been trying to get her out for years. Tommy would have been delighted.”
    I said, “She’s not dead yet,” but Mrs Pascoe only said, “As good as.”
    She opened the front door. The hallway up here was bleak, no wallpaper, green paint peeling, the sour smell of age, disease, garbage. A mouse skittered by on the stained carpet. I said, “All of them maids’ rooms up here?”
    Frances Pascoe said, “Yes. The building’s board has managed to buy them all, except for hers. To convert them to storage. She’s stayed on like grim death.” She pushed the elevator button. It was a service elevator at the back of the building; we got in, rode silently to the second floor, where we got out and took some back stairs to the lobby.
    I said to Frances Pascoe, “This the way the help travels?”
    She only smiled.
    In the lobby, she gestured to a sofa in the corner. She didn’t invite me home.
    â€œTell me how it really works, getting an apartment here. You advertise?”
    â€œNever.”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œWe can’t take everyone. We rarely have anything available.”
    â€œYou have complete control?”
    â€œIt’s a co-operative. The residents own the shares. It’s private. We have control.”
    â€œSo you look them over, the wannabes, according to the kind of dough they make. Right? So there will be records. You get an applicant for a co-op, you check out their financials first, and the references. Then you haul them in for an interview with the board that runs the building, right?”
    â€œThe apartments are paid for in full as I told you. I did tell you. There’s no reason to involve banks for the most part.”
    I said, “OK, so references,” but she said, “Most buildings, yes. Co-ops, as you know, are owned by the owners of the apartments, each has a share, each has a vote, which is how the boards are elected.”
    I was getting impatient. “Spare me the basics.”
    â€œFine,” Mrs Pascoe said.
    â€œBut there’s references.”
    â€œWe don’t ask for references.”
    â€œWhat?”
    She rubbed her hand across her forehead. “We don’t need them. Either people are known to us or not.”
    â€œKnown to you?”
    â€œYes. Can we go outside? I’d like to smoke.”
    I followed her to the piazza, where a fountain decorated with stone mermaids spouted water and there were carved marble urns full of white geraniums. She walked down the stairs to the pocket park, where there was a little gazebo with a bench inside, then leaned on the railing and craned her neck towards the river. At the water’s edge was a larger park; sun glinted off a bronze animal.
    She looked down at it. “It’s a warthog, I think. The kids call it Warthog Park.”
    â€œKids?”
    â€œNever mind. Let me have a cigarette.”
    I gave her my pack and the lighter. She said thanks, lit up and glanced