The I used to be a property manager in London back in the 80s.

For one reason or another, the flats I managed weren't strictly legal,

so it was basically my job to collect rent, arrange repairs,

and be a buffer between the real owner and the council,

should they ever find out he was flouting regulations.

It was a proper cash under the table sort of thing, and we didn't discriminate when it came to tenants.

If you could give us the month's rent, which was about 60 quid back then, then we'd give you a bedroom in a shared house with communal kitchen and bathroom facilities.

These days, a lot of landlords ask foreigners for proof of their right to be in the country,

and I think you can get into trouble if you're found to be housing illegal immigrants.

But back then, we weren't in the least bit interested in who you were or where you were from.

All we wanted was money. And the same applied when I met a guy

called Yuri. Yuri mentioned something about being from Latvia, but I never saw any papers to

confirm that. His name could have been anything and he could have been from anywhere. I met him outside

this crumbling downhouse in Finsbury,

one of the properties that I managed, heavy emphasis on those quotation marks there,

and the room that he was after was a mess. There was peeling wallpaper, damp patches everywhere,

and a stink that was sort of half-mold and half despair.

It was the kind of place that you'd give a rat the hump,

and Yuri didn't quite seem desperate enough to rent it.

But after a brief look around, he told me he'd take it.

I was surprised, honestly, but I wasn't about to argue with the man.

I just took his money, gave him his keys, and that was that.

...