Gentlemen's Agreement and Other Stories

Gentlemen’s Agreement

and

Other Stories

by

S.A. Aslam

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The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author. All characters, corporations, or establishments in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, or other real-life entities, past or present, is purely coincidental.

Contents

Gentlemen’s Agreement

The Inheritance

Blackmail

Gentlemen’s Agreement

I

A BLEAK FUTURE faced the city as I noticed the rise in makeshift stores selling cheap handbags and shoes, cut-price toiletries and confectionery, standing alongside charity and bargain shops, pawnbrokers and bookmakers. The poor quality of goods belied the wealth of the nation and made the high street a shoddy place, serving the common denominator of instant gratification with products just a few months away from a rubbish tip.

The locals ambled along pavements, dressed casually to hide their unhealthy lifestyles and their preoccupation with food. Warnings against the habit of spending more than one earned had long been forgotten; instead it was the advocated way of life.

I was also baffled by the way new architecture had been so readily accepted when it jarred so much with the old, especially the chrome and glass square boxes which had replaced Victorian brick elegance and stood opposite the eight-hundred-year-old Gothic cathedral.

I had left the city a long time ago, so the conflicting styles and changes hit me harder than the new people moving in. I had come back to find Martin Whitehouse.

He isn’t married and I haven’t met any of his friends or girlfriends, Mrs Whitehouse told me as she gave me a photograph taken a year earlier. He usually just talks to me about work and his colleagues. He’s been out with a few girls but I don’t think there’s anyone serious. She took a deep breath and continued. He didn’t do particularly well at school – just four GCSEs – but I think he’s realised his forte is working in sales. He’s saved up some money and he wants to start his own business and buy some property. He wants to secure his future.

Martin never had any money problems, she said, and always brought her presents: chocolates, flowers, jewellery and bags whenever he came to see her. She paused. His father worked hard all his life. My husband died of a heart attack in his late forties.

She turned away to look through the brilliant white net curtains at the green trees lining the suburban street in the southern half of the centre.

In her drive, a red mini was parked next to the blue hatchback belonging to her sister who had come to stay for a while. Mrs Whitehouse taught in one of the local primary schools. She dressed neatly, kept herself fit and healthy, and lived in a tidy house. Her son had disappeared from his rented flat in the city fifteen miles away some time ago, but the police had dismissed her concerns, saying that he was old enough to do and go as he pleased without parental consent. Mrs Whitehouse was paying me with money that had come from the sale of her previous house – or rather houses as, like many people, she had repeatedly treated having a roof over her head as a capitalist venture.

He’s only thirty and he’s not a man of the world. I’ve tried ringing him but there’s never a reply. It’s been five months since I last heard from him. Even if his job hasn’t turned out as good as he thought or if he’s in trouble, I’d like him to know he can always come home to me.

I nodded without commenting and looked at the photograph of Martin Whitehouse: five feet ten inches, sandy brown hair, pale blue eyes, aquiline features and an open face, which appeared older than his thirty years. I was just past forty and my mother too had always offered to help and kept reminding me that I could stay with her. My life had been the opposite of Martin Whitehouse’s: I had completed a stint in the army and, after leaving, realised I was unsuited to a steady office job and struggled to cope with civilian life. But I had no wish to base my life and identity on past achievements, or exclude myself from the rest of the nation. My private education had ensured my rise up the ranks but I had never succeeded in doing what my father had many years ago: providing help for those who needed it most. I was loath to spend my life in a closed community, attending dinners, listening to speeches and partaking in endless rounds of drinks. So I had left the army with excellent recommendations and without a sense of fulfilment.

I did my own checks on Martin Whitehouse and found he had no debts and was progressing well in his career. He had never been in trouble with the police – not even a speeding ticket. His last known employment was with a company called County Estates whose staff handled expensive properties and earned high commissions. It was in the more affluent northern part of the city and the cliché was true: there really were more trees here, and they were leafier. A handful of designer shops were dotted along this high street, making the national chain stores and cafés look chic. County Estates stood between a hairdresser’s and a boutique.

At half-past eleven I walked into the senior partner’s old-fashioned office. The furniture and décor were tired and I was surprised to see such drabness: it missed even the quaint or shabby chic categories. Mr Isaac Newton – my father’s idea – was in his sixties, about six feet, and had sparse grey hair that ended in ragged curls at his collar, a large, thin, crooked nose and a protruding stomach. His complexion was pockmarked from teenage acne. He shook my hand with practised professionalism, no doubt gained at a public school, yet there was something diffident about his manner, as though he was afraid to reveal he had remained vacuous and socially inept. It could also simply have been that he was reluctant to talk to private investigators; we have no official capacity, and fiction is never as romantic or exciting as reality. Or he might have been afraid I would damage his social status.

He was quite good, said Newton about Whitehouse. "No complaints. I hope your enquiries will be discreet. I’m sure you understand…

Yes, of course, I said. I’m just trying to find him for his family. I don’t suppose you could tell me why he left?

I really don’t know, said Newton.

He shuffled the papers on his desk, picked up a pen and put it down in the same spot.

Well, can you tell me whether he went to any particular places or had any special contacts?

No. No, I’m sorry, I have no idea.

"Was he in your employment for a long time?

Newton looked away as if trying to remember. Ah, no, he was here for about three months, but he was quite happy.

I took my turn to feign reflection for a while then said, That’s rather a short time for someone who was quite good at their job and happy working with you.

I suppose so. Newton opened his arms in a gesture of innocence, and shaking his head added, Well, I don’t know. I don’t have any more information, I’m afraid. Why don’t you go to the police? I really am quite busy. So if you don’t mind …

I thanked him and went back into the main office where there were two women and three men, all in their twenties and all of whom looked as if they had been created from a single kit. They shared the same Sloane – or would-be Sloane – speech, had the same soft jaws, and wore the same calm expressions, as if untroubled by weighty problems. Not quite Whitehouse’s type – or mine. This was not a place for the cheap and fast consumerism that permeated the centre of the city, yet it was just as soulless. To these people, a house, or a flat, was not a place to live and even an empty garage could be sold at a price that few could afford. However, there was money to be made and the young man had obviously wanted his share. County Estates was one place for someone with aspirations to succeed to make useful connections, but I wondered what other kinds Whitehouse had attracted.

I left the estate agent’s, found the trendiest restaurant on the high street and ordered a black coffee. I sat at a table in the middle of the room and waited. Just under an hour later, the staff from County Estates came in for their brie salads and espressos. One of the men recognised me and sauntered over. He was the opposite