When it last sold in 2020, 2-8A Rutland Gate was Britain’s most expensive home, going for £210 million. Calling it a “house” doesn’t really do it justice—”palace” is more accurate. It’s in Knightsbridge, one of London’s most glamorous areas, with 45 rooms, four elevators, an indoor pool, and 116 windows, 68 of which overlook Hyde Park. But no one is enjoying those views. This palace has been empty for years.
There may be no one inside, but there’s someone just outside—and I’m afraid I’ve woken him up. On the porch sits a makeshift tent, mostly made from umbrellas. A bearded head pops out, a bit groggy but friendly. The porch is packed with stuff spilling out along the railings: baskets, books, newspapers, pictures, teddy bears, games, a couple of bikes, and lots of flowers in vases, pots, and bins.
Through the grand door on the porch, the 24 marble bathrooms were once decorated with semi-precious stones. Now, Anders Fernstedt, who has lived on this porch for three years, has to pee into a plastic bottle. “Everest base camp problems,” he says. “You have to be clever enough not to get out of the damn tent every time.” I give him some privacy so he can get ready to tell me more about his life.
The property doesn’t look like a single house, but more like a row of houses. The address sounds like a row of houses too. And it was, until the early 1980s, when billionaire Rafik Hariri—soon to become Lebanon’s prime minister—bought them. Hariri, who made his fortune building palaces for the Saudi royal family, knocked the Rutland Gate houses together to create his own London palace. He lived like a king here—even the wastepaper bins were covered in 24-carat gold leaf—until he was killed by a truck bomb in Beirut in 2005.
The home was bought using a company registered in the British Virgin Islands, an offshore haven. My former colleague Rupert Neate researched and wrote a detailed piece about 2-8A Rutland Gate in 2023, when he was the Guardian’s wealth correspondent. He dug deep into the history of the building and the land it sits on, going back to the 1750s, when the landed gentry moved into the area and the Duke of Rutland built a Palladian-style mansion here.
Rutland House was torn down in 1836 and replaced by a row of terrace houses as London’s property boom really took off, fueled by colonial wealth gained through questionable means. That boom has continued to this day, though now the serious money and real estate are no longer with the English aristocracy, but with an international jet set of oligarchs, oil sheikhs, and tech barons.
After Hariri’s death, 2-8A Rutland Gate was given to Sultan bin Abdul Aziz, the crown prince of Saudi Arabia. When he died in 2011, those of us outside this exclusive world got a glimpse of the lifestyle he and Hariri had enjoyed there. In 2015, the entire contents of the house—including those jewel-encrusted bathroom suites and gold bins, plus Murano glass chandeliers and Lalique crystal perfume bottles—were put up for auction. Since then, even after the record-breaking sale in 2020, 2-8A Rutland Gate has seemingly stood empty.
Although the house was reportedly bought by a Hong Kong-based billionaire, Cheung Chung-kiu (known as CK to his friends), the Financial Times reported in 2022 that the real owner was actually one of those friends, Hui Ka Yan, the founder of the aptly named property empire Evergrande and at the time China’s richest man. Evergrande started defaulting on its debts in 2021, which is probably why the house was put up for sale again in 2022 for a reduced £200 million. It came with planning permission to make it even bigger—by digging below the existing structure.The existing two-story basement would allow any new owner to build a larger pool and an underground parking garage for a fleet of luxury cars, as well as design a three-story ballroom upstairs.
The ownership of properties like this isn’t always clear or transparent. “Often, companies based in tax havens or secrecy jurisdictions are used for these investments, making it hard to understand this type of property,” wrote Jonathan Bourne, a researcher at University College London, in a paper published in April. Bourne and his colleagues found that over the past decade, the value of offshore residential property in England and Wales rose from £64 billion to £80 billion. London is the center, with 47,000 overseas-owned residential properties—45% of the total and 81% of the value.
Looking closer, 50% of the total value is concentrated in just two of the 318 local authorities in England and Wales: Westminster (34%) and Kensington and Chelsea (16%). Rutland Gate is in Westminster, very close to the border with Kensington and Chelsea.
The Land Registry shows the house last changed hands in 2020, when it was bought by a company called Vision Perfect Global Limited, registered in the British Virgin Islands, an offshore haven. When the house went on the market in 2022, it didn’t sell. After changes to transparency laws required the company’s ultimate beneficiary to be identified, the name on the documents turned out not to be Hui, but his wife, Ding Yumei. They have since divorced.
Evergrande collapsed in 2024 with massive debts. In April, Hui pleaded guilty to charges including fraud, misuse of funds, and illegally taking public deposits; he is awaiting sentencing. Evergrande’s liquidators can’t seize 2-8A Rutland Gate because it’s in his ex-wife’s name. Ding, a Canadian citizen, can’t sell it because her assets have been frozen. The house’s future remains uncertain.
Even though the people have changed, the story sounds familiar—urban palaces often bought with what seems like dubiously obtained fortunes. “The idea that criminal money, tax-evading money, and money from politically exposed people is tied up in the city’s effort to be a kind of party central for the world’s rich is an important one,” says Rowland Atkinson, a professor of urban studies at the University of Sheffield and author of the book Alpha City: How London Was Captured By the Super-rich.
In the Duke of Rutland’s time and then in the Victorian era, the super-rich came to London because the city was “a place of court as well as commerce,” says Atkinson. “That brought aristocrats looking to buy homes within walking distance of other people like themselves and key centers of power. That geography has subtly changed over time. With internationalization, it’s more about a dinner-party circuit than being close to the king or queen.”
On the global stage, London still matters. Atkinson says this is because of “its history, its livability, and its connection to a really important social circuit—in political terms and in terms of corporate and finance capital sectors—which makes it a more or less unmatched location. Of course, if you have that much money, you can have another place in New York, Geneva, Paris, or wherever, but you have to be in London.”
Too much scrutiny of offshore purchases, and certainly too much taxation, would scare off these buyers. According to the argument that the wealthy generate wealth, this would be a problem. Atkinson doesn’t buy this trickle-down theory: “I’ve written about how the methods behind it are completely rubbish.”
Even in the old days, aristocrats had some kind of socialPeople no longer truly engage with their surroundings. Now, property owners fly in, get driven to underground parking, and are taken straight up to their anonymous apartments, where luxury services are often provided by the five-star hotel next door. “The wealthy elite can isolate themselves—the city around them seems safe, easy to shape, and gives them a sense of control over their lives,” says Atkinson.
He admits he’s mainly talking about places like One Hyde Park, a high-end residential development just a few hundred meters from Rutland Gate, but the core issues are the same. “It’s strange and wrong that, in the middle of a housing crisis and a broader social crisis, you can find a magnificent home like that sitting empty for years. These homes aren’t being used as homes—they’re assets, part of a portfolio to be traded, or just a temporary place to stay for a few weeks a year.”
The story of Anders Fernstedt is at least as interesting as the story of the building attached to the porch where he lives. Born in Sweden in 1968, he grew up near Gothenburg with his mother, a librarian. Even though he had no formal training, he worked as a journalist, writing tech articles for business publications.
When Fernstedt’s mother inherited a summer house with an overgrown garden, she asked for his help, and he became interested in gardens and plants. In 2009, he enrolled as a mature student at the Royal Botanic Garden Edinburgh, studying horticulture and plantsmanship. “Plantsmanship—it’s such a lovely little word,” he says, repeating it with enjoyment. “That’s why I have my pretend garden here,” he says, pointing to the containers of cut flowers. “If we get heavy rain, they might get knocked down, soggy, and moldy, so I throw them away. But otherwise, I like to let them go to seed.”
He says he did well on his horticulture exams but didn’t finish the course. Instead, he went to work at a garden in the Mull of Galloway and became friends with Emily Dalrymple, the Countess of Stair. Then he went to the US, where he was hit by a car in South Carolina, fracturing his spine in three places. He made a full recovery. He used to be an amateur gymnast and is good at table tennis, he says: “More of a spinner than a smasher.”
“Here comes the king!” he announces suddenly. Two police motorcyclists—the monarch’s special protection officers, he says—are speeding along Kensington Road, blowing whistles and gesturing for people to get out of the way of the black Range Rover behind them. Fernstedt once met Prince William when the royal came to help out at a day center for homeless people run by the charity The Passage. Fernstedt enjoys visiting the swans on the Serpentine in Hyde Park and says he showed William “a little video of his swans and how they behave with me.” Fernstedt says William told him to look after them for him.
Fernstedt, a former journalist, has lived on the porch of the property for three years.
He has been in trouble with the law. Last June, he appeared at Southwark Crown Court after an altercation with two people. The disagreement was about how he was interacting with the swans—touching and stroking them. Fernstedt, who represented himself in court, was found guilty of assault causing actual bodily harm and sentenced to a 15-month community order with a 15-day rehabilitation activity requirement. He was banned from Kensington Gardens, next to Hyde Park, and from contacting the two people for two years.
Back to his story. In 2013, Fernstedt was living in the San Francisco Bay Area when he met New York Times technology writer John Markoff. He later helped Markoff research and edit a book about robots. “I was his sidekick, and during the intensive part, he and his wife put me up in their San Francisco house, where they would host dinners for the netocracy or the cyberati, or whatever you want to call it.”Koff introduced him to the Economist’s Silicon Valley correspondent, who mentioned the magazine was hiring in the UK. So Fernstedt moved to London and worked briefly, part-time and remotely, as a freelance factchecker at the Economist. “I thoroughly enjoyed it, because it was the first job I ever had where there was no homework.”
Fernstedt lived on an estuary in Essex in a run-down 25-foot (7.6-meter) sailboat he bought on eBay with Markoff’s help, commuting into London on a Vespa he got from a Florentine banker. After his short stint at the Economist, he became “a freelancer whose commission never arrived. I had a press card, so I spent probably a couple of years going to events. I was exceptionally well informed, kept a finger on a million things – but without a desk, without a commission and so without an income.”
He worked at the marina to cover his berth fees and spent almost a year painting the crane used to lift boats out of the water. Then his boat was damaged in a storm. In terms of life stability, Fernstedt was also starting to drift. People began to turn against him, he says. “The community had a choice: is he our boy, or is he a fox to hunt? And I think they decided I was a fox to hunt.”
By 2019, Fernstedt was in north London, living in a tent on the Walker cricket ground in Southgate, next to the cemetery. Someone called StreetLink, which connects people sleeping rough with support services. That was the start of Fernstedt’s adventure in temporary accommodation, one he didn’t enjoy. His first place was a flat in Tottenham. “Hell has many layers, as Dante would have it. I started in the upper crust of hell; not too bad.”
Then came his first no-fault eviction, so he moved to Finchley. “We had arson – a complete burnout in one flat. I was assaulted by an ex-convict with an asbo ankle tag, a real piece of work.” They made up, but Fernstedt received another no-fault eviction. Finally, he was put in a flat in Brent Cross, “where for a year and a half I was basically hostage to a crack dealer with tattoos on his face. I mean, a bad piece of news.”
It’s bizarre and perverse that, in the middle of a housing crisis, you can find a magnificent home like that lying empty for years.
The landlord sold the place and Fernstedt faced no-fault eviction number three. As he was moving out, the crack dealer attacked him, unprovoked. “Maybe he was drunk, hungover, a cocktail of other stuff, but he came in and gave me a sucker punch while I was lying down – ruptured my eardrum.” While Fernstedt was in hospital, all his possessions were stolen; they had been in the corridor of the block of flats, ready for him to move out. He had nothing and nowhere to go. The next chapter – rough sleeping – began. “This is still the next chapter,” he says, laughing.
It’s also where the two stories – his and the story of 2-8A Rutland Gate – come together. Fernstedt had been coming to this part of town to spend time with the swans. He didn’t know anything about the building across the road, but it seemed to be empty and it had a big porch – a portico, even – which provided shelter. He moved in and has lived here ever since, gradually accumulating stuff.
As we talk, a woman stops and asks about the flowers and other paraphernalia: what does it all mean? “We’re trying to find out. I have lived here for three years and every day I think surely tomorrow I’ll be rescued,” Fernstedt replies, cryptically. “So it’s one more flower every day, mainly to make my neighbours’ children happy.”
The woman, who is Russian, lives nearby and is taking her young son to the park. Her son is standing not far from us and is a bitHe was too shy or scared to come over. It turns out they go to the same Russian Orthodox church as Fernstedt, just around the corner. For Fernstedt, it’s less about God and more about the music: “It’s like having a season ticket to Covent Garden!” Plus, the church gives him food and clothes.
The Russian woman and her son leave after congratulating Fernstedt on his choice of spot. He knows many of his neighbors, like the retired Azerbaijani ambassador who lives a few doors down; they sometimes go for walks together. Fernstedt has always been well-connected, and being homeless hasn’t changed that.
The house is owned by the ex-wife of Hui Ka Yan, who founded the now-defunct property empire Evergrande and has pleaded guilty to fraud and other charges.
He never expected to end up on the streets, he says: “Not in a million years. This isn’t me.” He knows he’s not a typical rough sleeper—healthy, he says, both physically and mentally, with no addictions. He brushes off the idea of trauma: “Trauma to me is when all your blood pours out on the street. That’s what the trauma unit in the hospital deals with, not when my feelings are a bit…” He makes a hand gesture that suggests “not so good.”
He’s learned how to survive. He knows where to go for food, water, a toilet, and power—he has a phone and some power banks. A local Lebanese restaurant lets him charge them and use the Wi-Fi; in winter, there are patio heaters. He has no ID—he says the Home Office lost his passport—which makes a lot of things difficult. He’s less bothered about having no money. “No money is better than a little money. With a little money, you never have enough. Once I know what I don’t have, it’s smooth sailing.”
Sleeping on the streets was scary at first. “If you’re a wandering rough sleeper, you always have to keep one eye open,” he says. Now that he’s settled in one place, he feels safer. He’s comfortable enough—he shows me the mattress he sleeps on, plus extra soft things, like a fluffy octopus toy someone won at the Winter Wonderland fair in Hyde Park and gave to him. “I’m like the princess and the pea,” he says. On top, he has a Hungarian goose down duvet that keeps him warm in winter but isn’t too hot in summer. He usually sleeps well, though sometimes a loud Lamborghini wakes him up.
Fernstedt has one working bicycle and another that’s broken down with “multiple organ failure.” A third bike was stolen.
In 2025, there were more than 300,000 long-term empty homes in England alone, up nearly 15% from the previous year. On top of that, the number of second homes not being lived in is over 268,000. In London, the number of empty homes is high and rising, with some areas especially bad. The City of London is the worst, with one in four homes not being used as homes (this includes second homes). Next is Kensington and Chelsea, with one in nine homes empty, and Westminster with one in ten. It’s also top for offshore-owned property, remember? That might not be a coincidence.
London also has the most urgent housing needs; of the 1.34 million households in England waiting for a place to live, 340,000 are here. If you live in the capital, you might think: wait, new buildings are going up all the time. “The places building the most housing have somehow managed to have the highest vacancy rates,” says Chris Bailey from the charity Action on Empty Homes. He points out that building houses doesn’t necessarily solve the housing crisis. “We’re building the wrong kind of housing, it’s that simple. Towers of luxury apartments don’t house poor or homeless people.”
Some of what’s called residential housing isn’t even that, he says: “It’s basically a piece of London that’s been sold to someone overseas.”The entity that now owns it. He’s talking about overseas-owned residential property—45% of which is in London, and much of it sits empty. The government estimates that on any given night, 1,277 people sleep rough in London. “Empty homes are a really visible and visceral sign of the housing emergency and the inequality in our housing system,” says Charlie Trew, head of policy at the housing charity Shelter. “The fact that you have thousands of empty properties and hundreds of thousands of homeless households absolutely needs to be addressed.”
In April 2024, Shelter published a plan to turn empty homes into social rent homes—subsidized properties owned by councils or housing associations that provide affordable housing for people on low incomes or in vulnerable situations. The plan includes strengthening compulsory purchase powers, which allow a council to force the sale of an empty property, as well as ways to discourage homes from being left empty. (Premiums on long-term empty and second homes were introduced by the Levelling-up and Regeneration Act 2023.) Councils would need more funding—and new powers—to bring empty homes back into use. “It’s unlikely to end homelessness entirely,” Trew says. You still need to build a lot of the right kind of homes. “But it’s an important part of the puzzle.”
“I am so close,” says Fernstedt, holding his fingers apart to show the thickness of the front door that separates him from the second most expensive shelter in Britain (in April, it was reported that a mansion in Chelsea, Providence House, had sold for £275 million). He has a creative way of coping. “What I’ve told myself is that this is my pretend reality. I’m a child, and my parents are in the house. I just asked them: ‘Can I camp in the treehouse?'” He puts on a stern parental voice. “‘Do you want to sleep in your room, son, or in the treehouse?'” Then he switches to an excited child’s voice. “‘Treehouse! Treehouse! Treehouse!'” Somehow, Fernstedt manages to stay cheerful.
Of course, 2-8A Rutland Gate isn’t going to be turned into social housing. Even Westminster council isn’t going to find £200 million to transfer to the British Virgin Islands just to get the key. But as a symbol of the housing emergency and the inequality in the system, it doesn’t get more visible or visceral—a homeless man with no money sleeping on the doorstep of a £200 million house with 45 rooms that has been empty for years, owned by a billionaire who seems to have rarely, if ever, lived there and resides thousands of miles away.
Do you have an opinion on the issues raised in this article? If you would like to submit a response of up to 300 words by email to be considered for publication in our letters section, please click here.
Frequently Asked Questions
Here is a list of FAQs about the empty mansion and its sole resident the homeless man on the porch
BeginnerLevel Questions
1 Wait a homeless man lives on the porch of the most expensive house in Britain
Yes The house known as Rufford Abbey is currently vacant A homeless man has set up a makeshift shelter on the porch because it offers some protection from the elements
2 Why doesnt the owner just kick him off the property
The owner is a foreign investor who rarely visits Evicting someone takes a legal process and the owner likely doesnt want the hassle or bad publicity In some cases the man has been there so long he may have established adverse possession rights
3 Why is the house empty in the first place
Its a trophy asset The owner bought it as an investment or status symbol not to live in They may be waiting for the property value to rise or they simply have other homes Maintaining a huge mansion is also incredibly expensive so they leave it empty to avoid costs
4 Is the homeless man a squatter
Technically yes He is living in a property he doesnt own However because the house is empty and the owner is absent he has essentially become the de facto resident
AdvancedLevel Questions
5 What is adverse possession and could he legally take the house
Adverse possession allows someone who occupies land without permission for a certain number of years to potentially claim legal ownership If the homeless man can prove he has lived there continuously openly and without the owners permission for that entire period he could file a claim This is extremely rare and difficult but its a real legal possibility
6 What are the practical problems for the local council and police
The council cant force the owner to secure the property unless its a health hazard The police cant remove the man for trespassing So they are stuck in a legal gray zone The main problem is the house is a target for vandals and the porch situation draws negative media attention
