Prologue

'And now my darlings,' the estate agent turned and spread his arms wide, 'the pièce de résistance.' The easy prey followed him into the room.

Too many bankers and their dull grey suits today, the estate agent thought, not enough billionaire colour. He'd strung these two along with his bitchy queen routine for far too long already. Although he didn't have to act too hard he had to admit.

He watched the couple blink at the blinding summer light blasting in from the two-storey lounge windows behind him. Enough. He wanted their money. He wanted it now.

'Come with me you lovely people,' he strutted between them, placed his hands on their backs, and moved them deeper into the sumptuous space. 'Could this glorious penthouse actually be yours? The views, oh, the views, are all money,' he said. 'Canary Wharf and Greenwich in one direction, and, in the other? A skyline to die for, the Houses of Parliament, Big Ben, the London Eye, the bridges.'

He pressed a button on a small white box, the shadows moved.

'And there's the remote controlled skylights in every room, of course.'

The ceiling wide array of mechanised blinds slid smoothly back to reveal a glass roof and ever more sky. They stood transfixed.

'You've surpassed yourself,' the woman said. 'How soon—'

The estate agent waved a finger, 'Oh no, my dear, it's not that easy. This is the palace for the kings of the castle. Residents approval only. But as I am the estate agent to the stars, for you, it shouldn't be a problem. You really won't believe who the neighbours are.'

'Oh, Michael,' she said and gripped her partner's arm. 'It's what we've always wanted, isn't it darling?'

The estate agent beamed at them. Skirt on the hook, it was time for the fat-cat in the oh-so-predictable striped shirt and pink tie. He turned his mascaraed eyes towards Michael, 'Come on, stud-muffin,' he gestured his head at the apartment, 'you know you want it.'

Michael rocked on his heels, looked at her for a moment too long. The estate agent saw nothing nice in the man's eyes.

'I want it? Sure Jo, it'll go with our town house, the country house, the yacht, the cars, the vineyard in France—' He shook his head.

'Michael,' she said, a warning edge to her voice. 'That's the business, this, this is our place together. Our palace together.'

'Yes, of course...my love.' He turned his back on her, puffed his chest, and addressed the estate agent. 'It's a cock-swinging joint alright. How much is it going to hurt?'

Without warning she span Michael round and swung an open hand at his face.

She pulled her blow at the very last moment, squeezed his jaw hard and glared into his eyes.

The estate agent realised his mouth was open, closed it, and tried not to grin.

The bitch slaps. And not playfully either. What must their life be like in private? The estate agent's smile disappeared at the sight of Michael's now defeated puppy dog eyes, searching for her approval.

How disgusting.

Time to close the deal.

'Ah, my little passionistas!' he said. 'You really must see the rest of the apartment. Your manhood, Michael, will be so engorged by the time we're finished, there won't be any room to swing it. Pain is, as always, optional.'

Deference over, the estate agent slid his arm though hers and escorted her away from the shirt.

No rings on her paw, he noticed.

Even if Michael had the money wouldn't she be the one to give him his commission? Wasn't that how it worked with heteros? Not that he knew first-hand, thank god. But what a commission it would be. The height of the boom, speculators flipping properties left and right, prices running away from all but the richest or most in debt. He'd sell this to them today and six months on he'd be reselling it to the next rung-hugging executive wannabes. Just like he was now.

'Concierge service, valet, twenty-four hour security, private cinema, indoor and outdoor pool, you'll have it all.'

He glanced back as they climbed the mezzanine stairs. Michael trailed behind and bit his lip. Adding up the big numbers in his commission the estate agent hoped.

Then Michael's phone rang, an old-school-telephone ring tone.

The woman squirmed on the estate agent's arm, craned her neck back, and shot her lover a warning look.

Michael shrugged, not his fault. He glared at the caller ID.

'Michael?' she said.

The estate agent pulled her closer and they looked down on Michael together. Impatience exuding from their every pore. Michael glared at the ID again, then back at her, no hiding the anger this time.

'It's the investigator,' he said.

'Well?' she said, a parent talking to a child, 'Answer it.'

Michael clicked the green button, 'What do you want?'

She stroked the estate agent's hand, his skin crawled.

'So, tell me,' she said, 'the neighbours?'

'Of course Miss Devlin. But will he be alright?'

She leaned in, making a co-conspirator of him.

'Who cares?'

The estate agent laughed, looked down at Michael pacing the floor - an explosive shade of red crept over the man's pasty white face.

'He won't go on the carpet, will he?'

'Oh, I shouldn't worry,' she said, 'he's very well house trained.'

'In that case my dear, let me show you everything.'

They heard Michael shout: 'Do you even know what you're doing?' and ignored him, until a cold rush of air swept through the apartment and up the stairs.

The estate agent whipped round.

'Please, be careful,' he said.

Already too late, the wind tunnel of the Thames grabbed the balcony door from Michael's hands and flung it back. Michael stormed on to the balcony, his angry yells disappeared in the open air.

The expensive glass door beat a threatening rhythm against the lounge wall.

'I'd better close it,' the estate agent said.

They cantered down the stairs arm in arm and heard Michael's shouts turn hoarse outside, saw him stamp back and forth, clenching and unclenching his spare hand.

At the doorway the estate agent rolled his eyes so she could see, men hey?

'Do you have any idea? Do you?' they heard Michael say to the investigator. Then the man's face dropped. 'Where are you getting this information?'

Michael barged a way through showroom patio furniture, muttering into the phone. He headed for the corner of the building and clambered up onto the balcony wall. The only thing left between him and oblivion the thin metal rail along the balcony's edge.

'Michael?' the woman said. The estate agent felt her arm drop.

'Well, you know what?' Michael said, 'I'm actually really glad you called—'

She ran through the thrashing door.

'And you,' Michael looked back at her. 'Don't we have everything we need already? What more can you want? What more can I possibly give you?

'Michael.' She pointed her finger to the deck. 'Come here, now.'

He held the phone in front of his face, and, for the first time since entering the apartment, he smiled.

'Are you listening?' he yelled into the mouthpiece.

'Michael. Michael, no!'

Michael stepped over the rail, hesitated, then toppled over the side, a smile still on his face.

The investigator at the other end listened helplessly to Michael's, 'oh-my-god, oh-my-god, oh-my-god—'

It only stopped when the hard kiss of impact cut the call.