‘Technically, she’s not a boomer, but you’re right.’ Niall scowled. ‘She’s the worst kind of parasite. She swans around like she gives a fuck, but she’s morally bankrupt.’ He leant in close, lowering his voice. ‘You know she’s a private landlord, right?Squeezed nine bedsits into a five-bedroom house she owns in Camberwell. Nine!’
I shook my head, scandalised but not exactly surprised. Victoria is the kind of fake who wouldn’t see the irony in sipping a glass of Chablis in her bougie five-bedroom home while she preached about the plight of the homeless.
‘Word is she’s just issued Section 21 notices to all her tenants because she wants to sell the place.’
‘That’s awful,’ I said, because even though I had no idea what a Section 21 notice was, I was pretty sure it wasn’t good news for Victoria’s tenants.
‘The bitch needs bringing down,’ Niall said. ‘But I can’t do it because everyone would say it was sour grapes.’
‘Why?’
‘She sacked me for trying to help two rough sleepers. All I did was give them my phone number in case they needed help out of hours.’
‘That’s terrible!’
‘I know, right? Listen, I’ve got to go, but can I have your number?’
‘Why?’ I said again.
He looked at me appraisingly. ‘You’re one of the good guys, I can tell.’
I glowed with pride.
‘You wouldn’t be here otherwise,’ he added, waving a hand at the ragtag collection of the vulnerable and the marginalised we were there to help. The people ninety-nine per cent of the population walked past without a second thought every day of the week. ‘But if youreallywant to help, I know how you can.’
I eagerly handed over my number. Hadn’t I told our school careers adviser I wanted to be a professional agitator? Someone who upset the status quo, who asked the right questions, who challenged the people who thought they were untouchable?
That night, I googled Section 21 notices, and the more I read, the angrier I got. Victoria, the face of a well-known homeless charity, was evicting people from their homes without a second thought. The hypocrisy made my blood boil.
Two weeks later, Niall messaged me with the email address of a freelance reporter called Johnny Nelson who ‘specialised in exposing corruption’.
It was clear what he wanted. Someone had to blow the whistle on Victoria’s double standards. And I was perfectly placed to do it. I’d wanted a cause. Now I had one.
I emailed Johnny Nelson. I could tell straight away he was one of the good guys too. You get a feeling for these things. You wouldn’t believe the number of crooks and sleazeballs he’s brought down. We jumped on a video call and I explained what I had on Victoria. Niall had been adamant I mustn’t mention him so I stuck to our story, that I’d overheard a conversation between Victoria and Simone in which she’d mentioned the no-fault evictions and I’d been so incensed at her double standards I’d decided to go to the media.
Johnny went away and did some digging and I helped out where I could. I struck gold when, trawling through Dad’s archived WhatsApp messages to Victoria one day, I found one in which he advised her to set up a management company to ‘keep her direct involvement under the radar’. It didn’t take Johnny long to find Claremont Crescent Property Holdings Ltd registered under Companies House.
Even though we had Victoria exactly where we wanted her, I couldn’t resist sending her a few anonymous texts, just to wipe the smug smile off her face.
Johnny offered me a tip-off fee but I told him to donate it to Friends of the Earth. I did ask him for help with something else I’ve been working on, though, and he and his girlfriend Lara showed me how to find what I needed from the Public RecordOffice. That ticking time bomb’s been sitting in a plain white envelope in the pocket of my dressing gown, ready to detonate when the time’s right. But since Dad died, I haven’t had the heart to set it off.
Johnny’s exposé was waiting to be cleared by theTribune’s lawyers when Owen Evans turned up dead in the doorway of The Anchorway Trust’s offices. Suddenly every investigative journalist in the country was sniffing around the charity.
Worried someone else would beat them to it, the lawyers pulled their fingers out and green-lit the story. And now everyone knows Victoria Wyndham is a money-grabbing hypocrite who was prepared to let a vulnerable agoraphobic die on the streets.
Niall messaged about an hour ago, gloating. I should be pleased.
So why do I feel like I’ve been played?
56
AMBER
I glare at Dominic across the bed.
‘You…you utter bastard!’ I cry. ‘How could you?’
‘What are you talking about, Amber?’
