by Lizzie Lewis
There are several other customers in the coffee shop, but we’re crowded around a small table in the corner that’s out of earshot. Just as we are about to eat, a man in his thirties wearing an impressive slate blue business suit enters Button Up and makes his way straight to our table.
Abi introduces him as her husband Danny who has to work in the office today, even though it’s a Saturday. So this is the famous junior solicitor who is going to help me make my fortune. Or not. He certainly dresses the part.
It’s difficult eating and talking at the same time, and I can feel tomato ketchup around my lips from my cheese and ham panini. I wipe it away hastily with a Button Up printed napkin.
I’m hoping the conversation won’t return to the bugs in my friend’s house, or even the bugs in Mr Mulligan’s house that Sam and I rented. I’m wondering how the search is going in Jezza and Rachel’s house. The only person who is likely to let me know is Courtney.
Danny says he’s interested to hear what I’ll be doing, and he’ll see if he can find me some work, but he’s making no promises. I start to give a brief summary of what has led up to this, but it seems Abi has already given him the whole spiel. Well, it doesn’t matter. It’s not exactly a secret, and I’m glad Danny knows I’m properly qualified, even though I’m obviously green to the work.
I’ve got the signed tenancy agreement in my bag, and I hand it to Danny who quickly checks it. I notice he doesn’t put it on the table, which has now got a bit messy. It’s not me. I think Jezza pressed the ketchup bottle a bit too enthusiastically. But it doesn’t matter. We are clearly among friends.
Abi is insisting we have coffee before looking at the apartment. Above the service counter there’s a large clock shaped like a coffee cup and saucer. I’m guessing it was expensive. Although I’m anxious to show the apartment to my friends, I have to admit that the coffee here is so good that it’s impossible to turn it down.
Abi asks if it’s all right if she comes up with us. It can’t be that she doesn’t trust us, and she explains that she wants me to select the colour scheme for the walls which will be painted with an emulsion paint of my choosing. I’ve certainly not expected to be allowed that choice.
Abi then says I can choose the curtains in the bedsit, and what colour blind would I like for the office? It seems that when Abi inspected it after I left, she could see it was beyond repair.
“Abi,” I say, “I’d much rather you did all the choosing. I might only be here for a year, if the private detective business doesn’t work out. That’s all I’ve signed the tenancy agreement for. I’d like you to make it some sort of universal colour that would suit anyone.”
I don’t think Abi is agreeing with me, so perhaps I ought to choose something safe. Certainly nothing outrageous. Anyway, an office should be a place of calm, so perhaps cream or magnolia on the walls? Or maybe pale green? I sigh. That’s the problem with giving someone a choice. And what sort of curtains would I want in the living room-cum-bedroom? In other words, the bedsit.
I can envisage nervous clients asking if they can possibly use the toilet, and of course it will have to be the one in the living quarters, so the feeling of peace will have to extend there. I smile to myself. I’ve not realised setting up an office could be so much of a problem.
Anyway, whatever happens now, I have no doubts for my future. I, Janika Jones, recently widowed, will shortly be living and working here as the only private detective in town. How good is that! I’m just sorry that I’ve left a trail of bugs in my wake. Maybe I need to sweep this whole apartment before I move in.
Chapter 10
I’ve moved in at last. It feels strange to be in a different town, although I’m fairly familiar with parts of it, because I grew up here.
The apartment looks quite homely now with my pictures on the wall, some photos of Sam and me in happier times, and one or two of my favourite ornaments. Soon I’ll be able to bring everything I’ve left with Jezza and Rachel. I guess I really have started a new life now, and it scares me a bit.
Shortly before coming here to live, the reporter from the local newspaper who had interviewed me by Mill Bridge contacted me. She had my phone number, but didn’t know I’d moved in with Jezza and Rachel. At first, I thought it was just a friendly chat to see how I was, but after a couple of minutes on the phone it became obvious that she wanted to update my story.
She had heard I’d trained to become a private investigator since the murder. Was that right? Did I have any theories as to who had murdered my husband? Had I trained to be a private investigator so I could catch the murderers?
“Look,” I explained, “I’m leaving that with the police. If I get any ideas or find any evidence in my husband’s possessions, I’ll be sharing everything with them. I’m not, absolutely not, investigating crimes like that. I’ll be investigating things that the police wouldn’t normally handle.”
I got the feeling she wasn’t happy with that, and wanted to know where I would be operating from. When I let it slip that I would be leaving Brevelstone, she seemed to be losing interest.
“Well, I wish you well,” she said, clearly disappointed. “I hope you don’t mind if I run a short item with a few of your quotes.”
“I haven’t giving you any quotes,” I told her, trying to get rid of the woman. “Just talking about it is reviving too many memories. Sorry. Bye.”
I didn’t expect to read something on the front page a few days before I left for Button Up. Local heartbroken woman turns Private Detective to capture husband’s murderers. Janika Jones, husband of Sam Jones who was murdered at Mill Bridge six months ago, is still hunting for her husband’s killers. “I will hand everything to the police,” she promised me. “But I’m not going to rest until justice is done.”
Did I really say all that? Well, it’s true, even though I’m sure I didn’t express it in those words. I’m not going to make a complaint. I learnt on my course that it doesn’t do to upset the press. Perhaps some good will come from it. Perhaps the woman who made the phone call was too scared to come forward at the time, maybe because she recognised somebody who was there. Maybe she’ll come forward now so the police can identify the murderers. There had to be more than one in order to murder Sam. I can only hope there’s a breakthrough.
This is my first night on my own since the night Sam died, because Jezza and Rachel insisted I immediately moved in with them. I’m lying on the comfy new bed with the firm mattress above Button Up, listening for the slightest sound, of which there are several. It seems the building creaks a lot at night. At least, I’m hoping that’s what it is.
Abi has organised the whole apartment to be fitted with a sophisticated alarm with a digital keypad, to my specification – at my expense. The door at the top of the stairs is substantial, and the locksmith will shortly be fitting a metal bar across the inside, like the ones I’ve seen in some continental hotels for extra security at night.
Unless there are recording devices hardwired to a recording medium such as a memory card, the whole place is bug free. Exactly as I expected. I’m not worried about my personal safety. Okay, yes I am, but my main concern should be that clients’ records on my premises are absolutely secure. So, a double benefit. Two birds killed with one stone. Stop thinking like that, Janika!
I feel a bit stupid for taking all these precautions. There’s one safety precaution that seems a bit unnecessary, but I’ve purchased a rope ladder that will let me down from the living room window to the small parking area where Melanie and I have come to a satisfactory arrangement that allows us to park both our cars at the same time, but still give access to the waste skips.
The rope ladder is officially for use as a fire escape, of course. Actually, there’s no rope involved. It has thin wires and aluminium rungs, so it rolls up neatly just below the window. Even I couldn’t admit to myself that I might have reason to get out of here fast if someone was trying to break the door down. I know Abi didn’t believe me about it being a fire escape,
but I’ve got one all the same – on health and safety grounds. It’s always good to remain safe.
I’ve bought an LED bedside light, and I’m hoping I can get to sleep with it on, set to low power. I’m not too keen on total darkness. I wondered if I’d picked up a tail shortly after leaving Brevelstone in my Nissan Micra. If I did, I lost it halfway here, although they could have been a second tail who took over to allay my suspicions. Quiet, girl, no one’s interested in you anymore. You can relax.
But I can’t relax. I know there’s no tracker on my little car. My bug detector would have found it, no trouble. Yes, I really did check. I must be getting paranoid.
“Janika,” I say aloud to myself, “there’s only one thing that’s worrying you, and that’s whether you’ll get work. All these other stupid imaginations are just that – stupid imaginations caused by low self-esteem about your ability to become a successful private detective.” Note to self: be sure to take on easy jobs to start with.
The forensic investigation team didn’t find any more bugs in Jezza and Rachel’s house, which makes me feel proud of my first successful bug sweep that wasn’t part of my course. They concluded that although the bugs were wired to the mains and therefore permanently active, there was no sign nearby that anybody had been tuning into them recently.
That confirms my suspicions that the bugs were placed as soon as the gang knew Sam and I were being evicted and moving there. So I can relax. The gang, whoever they are, are not interested in me at all. Just in Sam. And if Sam left any incriminating documents or notebooks behind, he certainly didn’t leave them with me.
So I’m safe, unless they think I have evidence that will help convict them.
Well, I know there’s nothing on the laptop. The police would have gone through every single file when they took it. And surely my phone is safe. Sam’s phone never turned up, so I’m guessing the gang who murdered him took it in case there were things on there that would identify them.
Well, if somebody wants to find me, it’s not going to be difficult. By setting myself up in business and advertising my name, I’m drawing attention to myself. Anyway, nothing special seems to have happened in the last six months since Sam died. I’ve not come across anything that points the finger at Mr Big, to use an old-fashioned expression.
I’ve brought some personal belongings with me, including several books. Some of them are crime novels, which I started reading as soon as I decided to become a private investigator, hoping to pick up tips. There are some more serious books of help for private detectives, plus a few police handbooks that belonged to Sam, but I don’t think any of them are going to make the right impression on my clients if they believe I need to keep referring to them – which I will do anyway, but not while they’re watching. I gather Mr Jennings kept some accountancy books on top of the filing cabinet, but I’ve put all my books on a shelf in the living room-cum-bedroom.
I let Abi decide on the colour scheme and curtains, and she’s done well. The smell of fresh paint reinforces the fact that I’m starting my life anew. I arrived here shortly before lunch, and ate down below in Button Up. I’m going to eat there regularly, because it would be rude not to. Anyway, I can’t believe I’m going to find anywhere as good and friendly as the coffee shop. The staff seem to get on so well together.
I have to arrange to drop my Micra off at the garage where Abi’s friend Rupert Forrester works. Because Jezza pointed out just how suitable the car would be for my work, I’m not going to bother with a quote. I want the dented door fixed, and anything that is potentially unreliable sorted. The garage is the other side of town, but Abi assures me Rupert will drop me back when I get round to making an appointment.
Abi knows of a sign maker in town, and I’ve ordered a suitable sign for the window that faces the street. Not the window with the new blind, but the one where Mr Jennings advertised his accountancy business. I’m also getting a small sign to go on the door to the street, so people know they’ve found the right place and don’t go into the coffee shop by mistake.
Abi and I tested the original intercom, and it seems to work satisfactorily. It has a camera in it, connected to a small monitor on my desk. It’s not exactly high-tech, but I’m not looking for things to spend my money on at this stage, although I do want to appear fully professional.
The sign maker has promised delivery in the morning. The locksmith is also coming in the morning to fit special security locks. As I explained to Abi, you never know who Mr Jennings gave keys to. And the locksmith is the one who will make the substantial door at the top of the stairs secure against forced intrusion by fitting the steel bar on the inside.
So everything kicks off in the morning. Maybe the new sign will bring in my first client, but I have to admit that’s extremely unlikely. I need to visit the local newspaper office to see if they will give me an interview. That should get my name known. There’s a digital LED clock on the shelf that says 2:33. I know it’s right. I set it up myself with the time on my phone. It hardly seems worth going to sleep.
Chapter 11
I didn’t realise Button Up would open so early. At seven o’clock I was woken by the sound of dragging chairs and tables, and a loud screeching from what is probably the coffee machine. But I can’t complain. It’s a cosy sound, even though it is a bit on the early side for me. I’ll have to get into the habit of going to bed early to be sure of getting a good night’s sleep.
Before eight, I’m sitting at the small table in the corner where Pete directs me. There are only two other people seated, and a small queue of men and women at the service counter with their own cups. I realise they are not intending to sit down, but taking coffee to work. They also seem to find the assorted pastries irresistible.
Well, if I’m going to make this a regular habit, I’ll have to try one of them. Abi is here, but I get the impression she hasn’t been here long. Poor Pete, having to cope on his own. I wonder where Melanie is.
The smell and the taste of Button Up coffee and the warm croissant with butter and raspberry jam slowly bring me back to life. I know I got very little sleep last night, but I’m not going to let that slow me down. The large clock shaped like a coffee cup above the service counter says five past eight. The sign for the upstairs window will be delivered at ten, and the locksmith is coming at the same time.
The print shop will open on the dot of nine – so Abi assures me. I need to take my memory stick with my carefully laid out flyer and business card master for professional printing. I’ve had too many pieces of junk mail through the door, badly composed and printed, to know that’s not the way to go. Yes, I could print everything myself on my new inkjet, but I want something better. Not flash, just professional.
Of course, I could have sorted all this a few days ago, but the enormity of what I’m taking on really zapped my energy, and Rachel told me to take it easy. So the flyers and business cards were put on the backburner until I was sure of the premises and the name of my detective agency. I almost had to drag myself to town in my Micra last week to sort out the sign. I didn’t come near here. I wanted to let Abi and her builder sort out the apartment without me poking my nose in.
I check the time on my phone, just in case the clock above the service counter is wrong. No, it’s spot on. Time for another cappuccino. No, I’ll make it a flat white this time. And perhaps another croissant. They are truly amazing. I tell myself this is not going to be a habit, but a treat, because this is my first day in business. But I don’t really believe what I’m telling myself.
I’m staring at my phone. I’ve been using it for the last six months without any problem, since DI Dickinson took it away to check. I can’t believe there’s any sort of tracking device on there, and I’m no expert at finding spyware and trackers on phones and computers. I realise that as a matter of urgency I need to do two things. Abi comes across with my flat white and second croissant, and I ask if there’s a good phone shop anywhere close. The sort of independent shop that fixes phones o
n the premises, and doesn’t just sell them.
She says there’s one in the next street, run by a young man who does all the work himself. It won’t be open until nine o’clock. “Is there a problem?”
I smile. “I just need to get it cleaned.” That’s the truth. I am getting it cleaned – electronically. I also need to get an unregistered phone for emergencies. In one of the American novels I read it was called a burner phone, but its name isn’t important. The phone shop guy will know what I mean.
I look at the clock again. Eight thirty. The time has gone on. I need to sort out a few things in my new office, and then visit the print shop and the phone shop, and be back here well before ten when the sign maker and locksmith come. They might even be early. I decide the print shop is the more important destination.
The man in the print shop looks about my age. He plugs my USB drive into the shop computer, and murmurs his approval at the image of the flyer that appears. I’m quite good at layout, and the wording and the clipart look professional. It was difficult to find suitable clipart. I didn’t want cute pictures of Sherlock Holmes holding a large magnifying glass ‒ of which there seemed to be hundreds. So instead, I settled for two fingerprints cut out in the shape of the letter J. I didn’t want an ordinary fingerprint in case it looked as though someone with a grubby hand had already been holding the flyer, so I’ve chosen black and gold for everything. Of course, I’m now having grave doubts about black and gold, in case the gold comes out a yucky sort of yellow, but I might as well go for it. By coming here I’ve passed the point of no return.
My business cards are of a similar design. The quote isn’t exactly a killer, so I can always come back for something different if I don’t like them.
The man looks thoughtful. “Private detective? I didn’t know we had one in town. I know Button Up. I use it myself sometimes, getting coffee on my way to work. What sort of jobs do you take on?”