‘Not the man in the minibus, Jesus,’ says Chris. ‘The guy you’re seeing?’
‘Some priorities you have there,’ says Donna. ‘Wow.’
They turn onto Foster Road. Juniper Court is a purpose-built 1980s block, which might begin to look retro-fashionable in twenty years. A hundred or so flats, lawns to the front and, crucially, a large car park underneath.
Juniper Court has not cropped up often in police records. A few stolen bikes, the odd noise complaint, a man selling fake Banksys by post, and some graffiti about the Mayor that they’d had to take seriously. They can’t even find the details of the management company online. It is the very definition of quiet and nondescript. But it could hold the key to who murdered Bethany Waites.
It’s nice and near the station, so home to plenty of commuters into London or Brighton. That means it’s deserted as they approach.
‘You nervous about your audition?’ Donna asks Chris. He’s doing his screen-test for South East Tonight, just around the corner from here, on Wednesday.
‘No, I chase villains for a living,’ says Chris. ‘You think a TV camera’s going to frighten me?’
‘I do, yes,’ says Donna.
‘You’re right,’ says Chris. ‘I’m terrified. You think they’ll let me pull out?’
‘I won’t let you pull out,’ says Donna. ‘You’ll be amazing.’
Through wide double doors, Chris and Donna see a desk in the entrance hall of Juniper Court, and a man in brown overalls sitting behind it, reading the Daily Star.
‘In London, they’d call him a concierge,’ says Chris, as he buzzes to be let in. He flashes his warrant card, but there is no need, as the man lets them in without looking up.
‘Morning,’ says Chris. The man still doesn’t look up. ‘Is there a building manager we can talk to?’
The man finally looks up. ‘That’s me. I don’t love talking though.’
Chris flashes his warrant card again. ‘Kent Police.’
The man puts down his paper. ‘This about my neighbour? You going to arrest him?’
‘I’m … no, I don’t think so,’ says Chris. ‘What’s he done?’
‘Built a conservatory,’ says the man. ‘No planning permission. I’m Len. I keep ringing you lot about it, and this is the first time I’ve seen you.’
‘That’s more for the council, Len,’ says Donna. ‘Not the police.’
‘That right?’ says Len. ‘I suppose if I killed him though, you’d be round soon enough?’
‘Well, yes, obviously,’ says Chris. ‘If you murdered him we’d come round. Murders, yes; conservatories, no. We’re looking for the details of the management company for this place, and we wondered if you could help?’
‘You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours,’ says Len. ‘You come round and have a word with my neighbour, and maybe I’ll remember –’
‘Arlington Properties,’ says Donna, reading the notice board and copying down a number.
Chris starts taking a look in some of the post pigeonholes, noting down names. Illegal, really, but Len behind the desk seems to have a fairly loose relationship with legality.
‘You allowed to be doing that?’ Len asks.
‘With a warrant, yes,’ says Chris. He obviously doesn’t have one. Chris sometimes thinks the Thursday Murder Club are a bad influence on him.
‘Anyone cause you any particular trouble?’ Donna asks.