was sitting with my feet up, enjoying a cup of coffee, when the police arrived. A visit by Mr Plod is never good news, but by the looks on their faces I could tell it was really not good news.
"You are Donald Fredrick Evers?" (God, I hate it when they start this stupid formal crap)
I confirmed that I was.
"And your partner is Quentin Bradford Sinclair?" I agreed he was. "I'm afraid we have some bad news about Mr Sinclair. He's been involved in a road accident."
'Oh God,' I thought. 'Quentin, what have you done?' Visions of Quentin with broken bones flashed through my mind.
"It was a rather serious accident and I'm sorry to tell you that Mr Sinclair is dead." The policeman intoned.
I sat, stunned. Quentin? Dead? But he couldn't be! He had everything to live for!
"Dead?" I stammered.
"I'm afraid so, sir."
"How?"
He proceeded to tell me about the accident: about how it wasn't Quentin's fault: about the lorry that pulled out to overtake without signalling straight into Quentin's path: about how there was nothing Quentin could do: about how Quentin's car went underneath the lorry: about how much of a shock this must be and how sorry he was. I just sat there and stared at him not understanding a word - he could have been speaking Mandarin for all I knew.
Somehow I managed to convince them that I was all right and that I understood that I would have to come down to the station and identify the body as Quentin had, apparently no near relatives. I ushered them out and returned to sit behind my desk staring at nothing.
Mary, our secretary, came in.
"Is everything…" she began then saw my face. "What's happened?"
I regarded her numbly. "Quentin…" I began.
Her hand flew to her mouth and her eyes went wide. Seeing this made me realise I had responsibilities.
"I think you'd better get everyone into the interview room," I said. "Oh, and hang the 'Closed' sign out, please."
Nodding mutely she turned away. Wearily, I pushed myself up from the desk and made my way to the room we used to interview clients. Everyone was there and looking worried. I stood and looked at them for a moment. They were a good team and there was no easy way to break the news.
"I'm afraid I have some very bad news and I can't think of an easy way to say this, so I'm going to give it to you straight. Quentin has been killed in a car accident."
The reactions were different but all variations on a theme - that of shocked disbelief. I waited for a few moments to let the words sink in.
"I don't have many details just yet but I do know that it was caused by an imbecilic lorry driver and the police say that Quentin had no chance. I have to go down to the police station tomorrow and I'll try and find out more details. I'm in a total state of shock just now, as I'm sure you are, too. If anyone wants to go home, feel free. But I would appreciate it if you were all here tomorrow. This business was Quentin's life and I feel sure he would want us to carry on whatever the circumstances." There were murmurs of approval.
The next few weeks were traumatic. There were the formalities with the police and the coroner and I found myself having to make all the funeral arrangements and see to Quentin's will and estate. Somehow I stumbled through them in a haze of misery and fatigue. And through it all we continued in business.
And there were the phone calls. Despite being an estate agent, Quentin had been genuinely popular. He was one of these rare creatures - a salesman that people actually liked - and, even rarer, an estate agent that people liked. The phone rang continuously - a procession of clients, customers and members of Quentin's circle of friends calling to offer their condolences in that awkward way people have when faced with death and bereavement.
The press, too, were a constant source of irritation for the first couple of weeks. For some reason the national press had taken up the story, perhaps because of the rarity-value of a likeable estate agent. The local boys were okay. They knew the scene and were reasonably sympathetic. But to the seasoned, cynical hacks of Fleet Street it was all too good to be true. There had to be dirt somewhere and they were going to find it. Some were downright offensive, some were more subtle, some tried to get a story through the staff. That put the team's hackles up and they closed ranks, bless them.
Worst of all were Quentin's lady friends - of which there seemed to be an inordinate number. All were tearful, wanting a shoulder to cry on and swearing how much they loved poor, dear Quentin. With some it was probably genuine but others were clearly attempting to find out if Quentin had made any arrangements for them in his will. How little they understood the man! I quickly became adept at patting them on the shoulder, making some comforting noises and easing them gently out of the office.
I have to say that I would probably have gone utterly insane if it hadn't been for the team, particularly Mary, our secretary. She had been very fond of Quentin and used to mother him, clucking like a distraught hen at his descriptions of his wild nights out. He used to play on this and the descriptions got more and more lurid until, at times, I could hardly suppress fits of the giggles. And through it all Mary would tut and tell him it was high time he settled down and got married. Then she would scurry off to fetch cups of coffee and aspirin or whatever. But despite her obvious sorrow, she maintained a quiet and dignified humour all through these trying weeks.
How we all survived I do not know but survive we did and, gradually, the furore died down and we managed to return to some sort of normalcy, at least on the surface. Quentin, having no close relatives and being eternally grateful to me for funding him in this venture, had bequeathed me his share of the business - and that put me in a serious quandary. I was no estate agent. I was no salesman. How was I going to keep the business going? Although it was my idea that guided us where to invest, it was Quentin who had gone out and done the business. The success of our venture had lain squarely on his sartorial shoulders. I fretted long and hard over what I should do.
Before Quentin's death I had hardly been a lad-about-town but now I became a positive recluse, spending most of my free time staring unseeingly at the TV with a bottle of beer in my hand. Part of me knew that this was foolish and was getting me nowhere but, somehow, I couldn't summon up enough energy or enthusiasm to do anything about it. I was mourning the loss of a close friend and trusted colleague though, if I was to be brutally honest, I was also feeling very sorry for myself. My meal ticket had been snatched away and I was in a blue funk.