Whispers Under Ground

of Christmas decorations hanging from every available hook.
    There was also a great absence of people, including behind the mahogany-topped reception desk. Now, there’s a time when an unlocked premises is a positive boon to a police officer as in – I was just looking to ascertain the whereabouts of the proprietor when I stumbled across the Class A controlled substances which were in plain sight in the bottom drawer of a locked desk in an upstairs office, M’lord . Leave the police alone in a room for five minutes and we start looking in drawers, locked or otherwise. It’s a terrible habit
    Stephanopoulos’ fingers were actually beginning to twitch when a short balding white guy in a chunky-knit pullover and khaki chinos bustled down the corridor towards us.
    ‘I’m afraid the office is closed for Christmas,’ he said.
    ‘Isn’t that a bit premature?’ asked Stephanopoulos.
    The man shrugged. ‘Nobody could make it in because of the snow this week,’ he said. ‘So I told everyone to come back after Christmas.’ He had the sort of default BBC accent that a posh person acquires through trying to avoid sounding too much like they went to public school.
    ‘But it’s not snowing anymore,’ I said.
    ‘I know,’ he said. ‘It’s a bugger, isn’t it? What can I do for you?’
    ‘We’re looking for Graham Beale,’ said Stephanopoulos. ‘CEO of Beale Property Services.’
    The man grinned. ‘Then you are in luck,’ he said. ‘For that is I.’
    We identified ourselves and told him we wanted to ask a few questions about one of his properties. He led us into what was obviously a staff coffee area and asked if we’d like a Baileys.
    ‘We were planning a bit of a pre-Christmas drink,’ he said and showed us a cupboard stuffed with bottles. Stephanopoulos enthusiastically agreed to a large one but took it upon herself to decline on my behalf.
    ‘He’s my designated driver,’ she said.
    Beale poured two measures of Baileys into a pair of mugs and we sat down around a round table with a white laminated top. Stephanopoulos sipped her drink.
    ‘That brings back a lot of memories,’ she said.
    ‘So,’ said Beale. ‘What do you want to know?’
    He laughed when Stephanopoulos explained about the warehouse on Kensal Road.
    ‘Oh god yes,’ he said. ‘That place. The Unbreakable Empire Pottery Company.’
    I got out my notebook and pen. Notes, like running after suspects and finding your own parking space, being one of the things Detective Inspectors don’t expect to do themselves.
    ‘It is owned by your company?’ asked Stephanopoulos.
    ‘As you can probably gather,’ said Beale. ‘We are that rarity in this modern age, a family-owned business. And the Unbreakable Empire Pottery Company was once the jewel in the crown. This was all before the war, you understand.’
    When there was still an Empire to sell pottery to, I thought.
    As the name suggested, the great selling point of Unbreakable Empire Pottery was that it was well nigh unbreakable, or at least it was when compared to ordinary china and stoneware. Thus it could be carried up the Limpopo by bearers or strapped to the flank of an elephant and its owner could still be confident that at the end of a long and arduous journey he would still have a plate to eat off and, more importantly, a pot to piss in. Chamber pots being by far the most popular item.
    ‘A commercial empire founded on poo,’ said Beale – it was obviously his one big joke.
    ‘Where were they actually manufactured?’ I asked.
    ‘In London, in Notting Hill,’ said Beale. ‘Most people don’t realise that London has a rich industrial heritage. Notting Hill used to be known as the Potteries and Piggeries because that’s what it was famous for.’
    It also had a reputation for some of the vilest living conditions in Victorian England and – given the competition was Manchester – that was pretty vile.
    ‘Everybody knows about the kiln on Pottery Lane,’ said Beale. ‘But they think that was all bricks.’ Me and Stephanopoulos exchanged looks. Since we were both completely ignorant of the kiln or the bricks neither of us thought anything of the sort – but we decided it was best to keep that to ourselves. Apparently after six days baking pigs and herding bricks, the inhabitants would kick back with a spot of cock-fighting, bull-baiting and ratting. It was the sort of place an adventurous gentleman might venture only if he didn’t mind being beaten, rolled