‘You are and you aren’t. That’s when they were on sale. This particular variety was hard-wearing and would survive many washes. Our product research tells us that some gentlemen keep the same underwear until the elastic goes and they’re forced to buy more.’
‘Deplorable,’ he said, trying not to think about his own.
‘Our briefs are bought in sets of three usually.’
‘I know.’
‘So the same pair won’t be worn daily. You can multiply the average life of one garment by three. Or by six if he bought two sets. If it doesn’t get washed every day a garment has a longer life, obviously.’
‘I’m with you.’
‘And the method of washing and drying makes a difference. Tumble dryers have improved, but the earlier machines could overheat and damage the fabric. I don’t suppose you know if your man dried his on a washing line?’
‘I don’t know who my man is, let alone how he did his laundry.’
‘The label says he wore the large size, if that’s any help.’
Diamond wore XL, which he’d always considered normal. ‘It’s not large really, is it? What are we talking about here — 36 to 39 inches?’
‘Not necessarily. Our block sizes have got tweaked over the years to fit the average physique. The tendency is for waist sizes to increase. In 1989, large could have been more like a 35 to 38.’
‘Not large in the sense of a sumo wrestler, then? Getting back to that timespan when they were on sale in your branches...’
‘1989 to 1995.’
‘You were saying that should be elastic, also?’
‘I don’t follow you.’
‘I’m talking about the timespan, ma’am. The average life of a pair of pants. You were saying it needs to be stretched.’
‘For the reasons I mentioned, yes. I suggest you spread the six-year interval to at least fifteen.’
12
‘This will impress you,’ John Leaman said when Diamond returned to the police office.
‘Try me.’
‘The Twerton squatters. The last people to live in the terrace, right?’
‘Go on.’
‘I had a call from the owner of the nearest corner shop and he told me one came in today and said they’d gone upmarket. They’re currently in the best squat ever, in the Royal Crescent.’
‘Never.’
‘It’s true. Some Chinese millionaire bought a house last year as an investment and had the interior upgraded and redecorated with a view to making it a centre for oriental medicine. On the day after the decorators moved out last week, the Twerton mob arrived in a van with their sleeping bags. Nobody knows how many. They’ve been moving more stuff in ever since and all the neighbours are going spare.’
‘How did they get in?’
‘Nothing forced. It seems they had a key or knew the combination. Probably paid a wedge to the decorators.’
‘They won’t be easy to shift. Were we officially informed?’
‘Uniform were told at once by the people next door, but you know how it is.’
‘Nobody wants a repeat of Stokes Croft.’
In 2011, Avon and Somerset police had attempted to evict squatters from a shop undergoing refurbishment in the Stokes Croft district of Bristol and the protest soon became a riot lasting most of the night and involving three hundred protestors. Several officers and members of the public were injured and the police were criticised for being too heavy-handed.
‘So it’s softly softly, is it?’
‘It’s a case of “police aware.”’
‘Aware, but staying away.’
‘Rightly so,’ Leaman said. ‘The 2012 act doesn’t apply because the planned use of the house is non-residential. It becomes a civil matter. The owner will need a court order.’
‘Are you sure these squatters are the Twerton people?’ Diamond asked.
‘Positive. It’s no secret.’
‘The guy the shopkeeper spoke to — do we know his name?’
‘He’s known as Tank.’
‘We must talk to him. He’ll be suspicious of our motives, but by the sound of it he’s proud of what they’ve done. We’ll let him know we’re not plotting to evict him.’
‘Won’t wash, guv. In their eyes we’re all fuzz.’
Diamond nodded. ‘Or worse. You’re right, John.’
‘And I can’t see uniform agreeing to us making contact.’
‘They don’t have to know.’
Leaman could still be shocked by his boss.
‘Which house is it?’ Diamond asked.
He’d already decided to drive up to the Royal Crescent and see for himself. The chance of making contact with the people who had actually lived in the Twerton property was too good to pass up.
Whichever way he approached the Grade I listed building in its elevated, open position, the grandeur of the concept never failed to move him. In the afternoon sunshine against a cloudless sky the sweep of the palatial terrace — actually more of a half-ellipse than a true crescent — stood for all that was best about the city he seldom praised but secretly loved.
He’d asked Ingeborg to come with him.
They stopped the car outside number one and walked the cobbled road to check the occupied house. The frontage behind the railings was less than twenty feet, so they could get close to the doors and windows without appearing too obvious. But there was no need for subterfuge because in front of the occupied house a notice in large, bold lettering was displayed on a board screwed to a post anchored in a planter:
We the present occupiers hereby assert our rights under Section 6 of the Criminal Law Act, 1977 and will prosecute anyone who threatens violence for the purpose of gaining entry to this house. There is someone in occupation at all times who opposes unauthorised entry.
We caused no damage and did not break anything when first entering and we have video evidence to support this. We will continue to respect the property until such time as the owner serves us with a legal notice to quit in the form of a written statement authorised by the county court or the High Court.
‘They’re not new to this,’ Ingeborg said.
‘And they’re not inarticulate,’ Diamond said. ‘Let’s see if we can speak to anyone.’
He rang the bell.
A dog barked from somewhere inside.
After a few seconds there was a squeak from the flap on the letterbox and it was pushed open a fraction. A woman’s voice said, ‘Yes?’
‘Just enquiring if Tank is at home,’ Diamond said, bending low.
‘What do you want with Tank?’
‘Tell him it could be payday.’
‘Does he know you, then?’
‘He wouldn’t remember us. My name is Peter and Ingeborg is with me. Can we come in?’
‘You’re joking. First rule of the house. Residents only. Are you media people?’
‘Don’t insult me. Would Tank care to come out to collect his handout, then? We’re not trying to con our way inside.’
‘How come you know him?’
‘He was in Twerton. Look I’d love to talk about old times, but not bent double and through a letterbox. My back is starting to ache. Tell him we’ll meet him for a bite to eat.’ He turned and asked Ingeborg, ‘Somewhere nearby?’
She was quick with a suggestion. ‘The Green Bird.’
He knew exactly where she meant. ‘The Green Bird, round the corner in Margaret’s Buildings.’ To make the invitation more persuasive he added, ‘Famous for its food. Join us, if you like. What’s your name?’
‘They call me Headmistress.’
‘Should I remember you? Were you in the Twerton place that got levelled?’
‘For a short while.’
‘Come too, then, Headmistress. Say in about twenty minutes. You’ll find us at one of the tables outside. I’m the big guy in the dark suit. Inge is the blonde in a beige jacket and black trousers.’