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For Anthony Stevens

CONTENTS

‘And what,’ asked Mr Pullen, nervously shuffling his papers together on his knees, ‘is to be done about Mrs Radinsky?’

It was the end-of-year meeting of Chesterton Court’s Residents’ Association and thanks to Mr Pullen’s patient steering they had arrived finally – and thankfully, thought Clare Trevellyan – at ‘Any Other Business’.

The atmosphere in Mr Pullen’s cramped flat – where in deference to his role as chair the residents’ meetings were always held – became uneasy. Mr and Mrs Hampshire, who, by virtue of their owning two of the penthouse flats, were accorded double voting powers, started forward on the perilously fragile chairs provided by Mr Pullen. Don Parsons, who had been hoping to get away sharpish, glanced anxiously across at his neighbour Susan Macclesfield and, catching her eye, sighed audibly. Other residents, who had been frankly dragooned into coming, shifted irritably, keen to get back to addressing their late Christmas cards.

Mr Pullen retrieved his glasses from the pocket of his cardigan and studied the past minutes as if refreshing his memory over what had been agreed when the topic of Mrs Radinsky last arose. This was purely a delaying tactic. He recollected all too well. And knew who would be asked to bear the lion’s share of responsibility in dealing with her.

Chesterton Court had not always been the salubrious establishment it now was.

Mrs Radinsky lived on the top floor, in number thirty-seven, in what was now described as a ‘penthouse studio’. Nobody knew the precise age of the occupant, but it was guessed she must be in her seventies. This did not stand in the way of Mrs Radinsky’s pursuit of her professional activities. In the past, no one at Chesterton Court had cared, or even noticed, that numbers of gentlemen callers regularly made their way, in those days up several flights of stone stairs, to Mrs Radinsky’s flat, where they stayed, perhaps an hour, before letting themselves discreetly out again.