Clocks Locks and Danger

by Lizzie Lewis

  I don’t want to intrude too much on family time, but it’s important that both Tom and Daisy understand what’s happening with the clock. It needs to be placed where the wide-angle lens will include as much of the room as possible. It also needs to be near a mains socket to keep the battery charged up, otherwise the recording only lasts for five or six hours. And that’s usually a big problem.

  Modern clocks run on a small battery, and don’t have a long lead dangling from them. However, there’s a bookcase with a table lamp on the top shelf. The lamp obviously plugs into something, and if I put the clock on there it will be more or less pointing in the right direction. Not perfect, but good enough.

  Daisy is interested in checking where the lens is. I point out the small black dot in the figure one of the ten. It’s so small and insignificant that she doesn’t spot it for a moment. Now she’s smiling.

  “That’s a big relief,” she says, laughing. “Somehow I had a vision of a large glass camera lens staring out at us. Amazing. And this really works?”

  I’m not offended. The world of spy cameras is obviously new to Daisy. It was a revolutionary design of lens that came out many years ago. The front part of it is really small, which means cameras can be concealed in almost anything. And since this camera records onto its own memory card, it is extremely difficult to discover with the more basic bug detectors. To discover a camera with the basic detector, it needs to transmit a radio frequency signal. So no one can snoop on this camera. Except they can, with the right equipment.

  “I need your wi-fi code,” I say.

  Daisy says she wants to put Katie to bed, and leaves me with Tom.

  I explain that with the wi-fi connection, he and Daisy will be able to monitor what’s happening on their phone.

  “I don’t understand,” Tom says. “We’re already here. We can see what’s going on.”

  I have to remember this sort of technology is something I’ve been trained to use. “You will be able to log into your wi-fi at work, and receive a live stream from the clock.”

  He looks surprised, but obviously believes me. “That’s amazing, Janika, I didn’t realise it would be so easy. That means if we see something happening that we don’t like, one of us can go straight home. But is it also being recorded? I’m thinking that my Nan is going to deny everything.”

  Tom certainly seems convinced that something unpleasant is going on when he and Daisy are at work. I explain that the memory card will only record for about eight hours, without being replaced or downloaded. When the clock is connected to the mains electricity, it will keep recording whenever there is enough light, but the recording will start overwriting everything on there when the card is full.

  Tom is so impressed with what I’ve set up for the family, that I’m sure he’ll be singing my praises to every customer he gets. I just hope his Nan doesn’t find out what we’ve done ‒ if she turns out to be totally innocent.

  Tom gives me the house wi-fi code, and I link it to the clock. I’m glad I’ve practised this a few times, because I want to look fully professional, not trying to read the tiny Chinese instruction booklet as I go. I ask Tom for his phone, and we connect the two. Fortunately, all is well.

  Tom seems to be amazed by the picture he gets. He walks around the room, staring at his phone in his hand, and occasionally waving to the camera. He’s like a small child with a new birthday present. Then he tells me to stand and wave, while he pops up to Katie’s bedroom and shows the picture to Daisy.

  “Don’t forget,” I say, “that camera is recording all the time. I can set it so it only records when it detects movement, but I’m sure you’re interested in what might be happening off camera. Don’t forget, it records sound as well. So you need to remember that. Anything you and Daisy get up to in the evening is going to be recorded.”

  Tom grins. “Duly noted, Janika. Anyway, we’re not going to post this on Twitter, so it will be...” He pauses. “No one else can see these pictures on their own phone, can they?”

  I assure him that only someone connected to his wi-fi is able to see the pictures, and his security code is a good one. The only reason I gave him the warning was in case someone got hold of the memory card and enjoyed themselves snooping on family life.

  I promise Tom I’ll call at the print shop in the morning and check his phone, to make sure there are no problems in getting a clear picture. All being well, he will be able to monitor what’s happening at home. I’m guessing it will be frequently. Perhaps continually.

  I realise this isn’t the end of it. If there is some sort of physical abuse, I’ll have to get Tom or Daisy to switch to clock off before the recording gets overwritten. Then either they or I can run the recording on one of our laptops in front of what will presumably be an extremely irate grandmother – on the assumption that she’s guilty. Well, that’s what a private investigator has to do. I have to distance myself from getting caught up in the emotions.

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  I’m back now in my apartment, and it’s already dark outside. I didn’t want to intrude too long on Tom and Daisy’s hospitality. If a friendship develops, all well and good, but I’m feeling exhausted. I don’t mind my parents coming, but I don’t want my mother keeping on about finding a nice man. I wouldn’t put it past her to bring Bruno. No, that’s clearly not going to happen. I think eventually she started to believe me about the abuse.

  I’m feeling snug and secure. There are two separate parts to the alarm system. One connected to the outer door and staircase, and one for the apartment. I’ve set the one for the outer door, but will only be able to set the alarm system in the apartment when I’m out. The slightest movement will trigger it.

  I’m sitting in one of the small leather armchairs by the window. I’ve not put the blind down yet, and I don’t intend to do it. I want people passing by to see me, and get the impression that I’m a workaholic. What no one can see is the eBook reader in my hand. I’m halfway through a cosy detective story. I’ve already guessed who the baddie is, but of course it won’t be him. That’s how these detective stories work.

  I’ve read a few books where I could only guess who the murderer is by ruling out every possible candidate except the one it can’t be. And of course that’s the person it is. I’m not so keen on authors who write like that. I prefer it if there are clues I can use along the way and guess the culprit, even if I can’t see how they are going to be caught. If I get it right, which I do occasionally, that makes me feel satisfied with my detecting skills.

  I let out a long, loud yawn. So much has happened today. My phone is fixed, my flyers and business cards are printed, and I’ve carried out my first assignment as a professional private investigator. It’s time for an early night.

  Just as I get out of my chair, the doorbell rings.

  Chapter 16

  Well, I’m certainly not going to hurry down and open the door. That’s what the intercom is for. For some reason I feel anxious as I hold down the Talk button. A grainy black-and-white picture of the road outside appears on the desk monitor, but no face. “Yes?”

  No one answers.

  “Yes?” I repeat.

  Still no answer.

  It’s probably some silly teenagers passing by who thinks it’s funny to ring the bell and keep walking. I must remember to switch off the intercom at night. There doesn’t seem to be a switch, but I’m sure one can easily be arranged. Perhaps this happens often in the evening, and all through the night.

  Apparently Mr Jennings had a hearing problem, so he probably wouldn’t have known what was going on. Especially if he was in bed, with his hearing aids on the night stand. I wonder what Mr Jennings was like. Perhaps I’ll be able to meet him sometime. I gather he’s living in an old folks’ apartment on the edge of town.

  I feel a bit uneasy. Well, no one has managed to get through the front door. The green alarm light is showing above the door to the top of the stairs, indicating that the alarm system is live. Unless the locksmith has give
n keys to someone, there’s no way even the most determined intruder can get through the front door without making a huge amount of noise. But, even if they have somehow managed it silently, they won’t know the alarm code. The alarm company is completely separate to the locksmith. So unless there’s a criminal gang consisting of locksmith and alarm company operating in town, I’m safe.

  The office door to the stairs has the steel bar in place. I know I’m chicken, but I want to be a very safe chicken. I wait a few minutes, and there’s no sound from below. Button Up closes on the dot of six, so it does feel a bit lonely here. Quite a bit of noise comes up from the coffee shop during the day, and I find that very comforting. It’s the silence at night, like now, that isn’t so good.

  Being all on my own at night in an empty building, after staying with Jezza and Rachel for several months, is scary enough ‒ without hearing lots of little noises. In the end, my nosiness, or inquisitiveness, gets the better of me. I feel an urge to unhook the steel bar and just peep down the stairs before going to bed. I’m a child again, looking under my bed for a bogeyman before I can climb in and go to sleep. How could there possibly be a bogeyman on the stairs? But I feel compelled to look.

  With my phone in my hand, and 999 set on speed dial, I slide the steel bar back and open the door as silently as I can. I’ve left the staircase light on, because I’m not yet as laid-back as I should be. Well, this is a strange apartment in a strange town, and I really do feel a bit isolated. Most of all, I miss my Sam.

  I look down the staircase. No one. But there’s something on the mat just inside the front door. Why someone would ring the bell to let me know they put a note through the door, I have no idea, but it’s safe for me to go down and retrieve it.

  I’m holding a plain white envelope, and I open it. This can’t be real. Why would someone send me this?

  DO NOT TRY TO INVESTIGATE YOUR HUSBAND’S DEATH OR YOU WILL END UP THE SAME

  “I’ve no intention of investigating it,” I say aloud, as though the writer of the note can hear me. It’s obviously been done on a computer and printed on an inkjet printer. I immediately drop the paper and envelope to the floor.

  It’s a joke, obviously. But it’s not funny. How does anyone connected with Sam’s murder even know I’m here? Well, of course word will have got round, but why would anyone come all this way to do something so stupid? Just reading it has probably caused me more hurt than the writer intended. Well, they’re not going to get away with this.

  I pop back upstairs and get some latex gloves from my forensic kit, and a plastic evidence bag. In the old days, especially in detective stories, the note would have been typewritten, and the detective would point out that the T was slightly crooked, or some other misplacement of one of the keys. All they had to do was test a few typewriters and, bingo, the guilty party was discovered.

  Now, with computers and printers, that option has disappeared, although I did read somewhere that each printer has some microscopic anomaly. I don’t have the technology to do it, but there may be fingerprints on the paper, and DNA on the envelope. But who’s going to bother to check for it?

  This is clearly some sort of stupid practical joke. I could show it to Courtney Jacobs, but she won’t be able to get any support. It is not as though I’ve been physically attacked. And why would anyone think I’m investigating Sam’s death. That’s with Brevelstone’s CID. Oh yes, that’s what I allegedly said in that newspaper article. I know DI Dickinson doesn’t seem to have been making much progress, but I’m certainly not going to interfere.

  I’m trying to put a brave face on things, but this note has really scared me. We’re talking murder here. My husband’s murder. Perhaps I will contact Courtney in the morning. If the author of the note can be identified, they can at least be threatened with prosecution if they don’t desist. The more I think about it, the more angry I feel, and the more determined I am to get revenge.

  It looks like I’m heading for another night of broken sleep, I’m so worked up. I made a mistake in sitting by the window. What did I think, that I would attract customers that way? Yes, but not the right sort. I’ve had enough of posing there with the blind open.

  I go across and pull down the blind, but not before checking that there is no one staring up at me in the street below. The street is empty, as far as I can tell. This is certainly a lonely apartment. I’m not aware that there are any other residential apartments nearby. What on earth made me decide to come here? It’s great in the daytime, but not at night.

  I still haven’t dropped my Nissan Micra off at the garage where Rupert Forrester works. First thing in the morning I’m phoning Courtney and telling her I’m coming over to Brevelstone with the note and the envelope. It’s up to her what she does about it. I’m hoping Detective Inspector Dickinson takes it seriously, and tracks down the perpetrator. I don’t want to receive any more notes, and who knows, there might be clues on this one to lead him to the gang.

  Chapter 17

  Fortunately, nothing else dramatic happened in the night. Nothing that I was aware of, anyway. I’m sitting in Button Up at the corner table which Abi has now agreed will be permanently reserved for family and friends. I feel privileged. Honestly I do. It’s great to be accepted in a town that holds some uncomfortable memories ‒ mostly uncomfortable things of my own making. What a timid little thing I must have been!

  I’m having a large cappuccino and a croissant with butter and raspberry jam. I guess this is going to be my regular breakfast fare for the next twelve months, six days a week. Button Up is closed on Sundays, and Abi, Melanie and the others deserve a break. Things can get quite busy here, and I admire the way they keep their patience with some of the more demanding customers.

  It’s only just after eight, but I’ve already taken the step of phoning Courtney Jacobs’ personal phone to explain about the note. At first she tried to dismiss it as some sort of practical joke, until I pointed out that the only people who are likely to know my connection to Sam and my new address are going to be people connected to Sam’s murder.

  Brevelstone is only an hour or so away, and I’m seeing Courtney at ten thirty at the central police station. She hopes to get Detective Inspector Dickinson with her. She’s not sure he’ll take much notice, but surely it has the potential to be a major step forward. Not every criminal thinks like a detective. Some wouldn’t realise there could even be DNA on the gum to seal the envelope.

  I don’t think modern gum is made from cows’ hoofs, which of course contain cow DNA. Sorting it out is not my speciality, but forensic experts can do it. If I tell Abi what I’m doing, she’ll probably say she hopes no innocent cows get arrested. I’m quickly learning that’s just her sort of humour.

  I smile to myself, even though I’m not in any mood for joking. I notice Abi hasn’t left the folded newspaper on my table. I imagine she wants to have a crack at the cryptic crossword herself, and perhaps impress me when I call in later today and see every square filled.

  I’ll have to buy the same newspaper and see if I can beat Abi to completing it – without using the internet! Cryptic clues can be addictive. I remember how on the Christmas before last, Sam and I played a game with secret messages written in invisible ink.

  We had two silver ballpoint pens filled with fluorescent ink. It was completely invisible under normal lighting, but the pens had a small UV LED in the end that made the writing shine a bright blue. We set each other a cryptic treasure trail and laid out Post-it notes around the house. We had our evening meal, then started the chase. It was great fun, but of course both our trails quickly led to the bedroom. Yes, our minds were as one!

  Time is dragging. I don’t need to leave for Brevelstone much before half nine, but, yes, I ought to call at the print shop before leaving town. I want to make sure Tom and Daisy are getting a good picture on Tom’s phone.

  My small table in the corner faces the main coffee shop doorway. I can see a woman who looks to be in her mid to late fifties walking towa
rds the door of Button Up, then turning away and coming back. No, I think she’s going to my office door. The problem is, I can’t see my door from inside Button Up.

  I don’t know whether to go out and ask if I can help, or just sit here and see what happens. Perhaps she’s going to deliver another printed warning. In that case I think I’ll wait. I’m wearing jeans and trainers, and she shouldn’t be hard to catch if she delivers a note and runs away. The problem is, I can’t see my front door.

  I’ve read just about every Sherlock Holmes story written, and remember how either Sherlock or Watson sees someone outside 221B Baker Street, and even if Holmes doesn’t know who it is, he looks at their clothing and their general demeanour, often noting a particular shade of mud on their shoes that is only found in a remote part of Scotland, and immediately deduces who they are and why they’re there. But that’s fiction, and it all makes sense while I’m reading the stories.

  I stand up slowly and go out through the coffee shop doorway. The only way I’ll know that she presses my office bell is if I can see her doing it. It’s possible to get a video doorbell connected to the wi-fi that will send me a phone signal when it rings. Perhaps I ought to get one, so I can see who the caller is and talk to them even if I’m away on another job. Another job? Chance would be a fine thing, especially one that isn’t pro bono.

  I’m standing well back, but in a position where I can see what’s happening if she goes to my entrance door. I thought she was going away, but she’s back now, muttering to herself. She’s smartly dressed, and probably not short of money. In other words, the sort of client I eagerly anticipate. She looks harmless enough, and seems to be in some sort of distress. Should I go to her and explain who I am, and ask if I can help?