by Lizzie Lewis
Before I can come up with the answer that is probably somewhere to be found in one of my detective handbooks, she rings my bell and stays put. Time to reel her in.
If I’d known I was going to get a client, I wouldn’t be wearing these casual clothes. My tight black skirt and jacket with white blouse look impressive. I walk forward slowly, so as not to scare her. She’s not looking at me, and I don’t want to tap her on the shoulder and give her a heart attack. I’m not sure my public liability insurance covers things like that. So I cough, discreetly.
She’s still staring at the door, obviously expecting it to open. “Good morning,” I say in a gentle sort of voice, “can I help you? I’m Janika Jones.”
She turns quickly, and looks frightened. When she sees it’s just harmless me, she relaxes. “You’re Janika Jones?” she asks, perhaps not believing me the first time. I definitely should have worn my office best.
I get my keys from my pocket and begin to unlock the door. Hopefully, that will help her believe I am who I claim to be. “Would you like to come up?”
She turns around and looks left and right, and then nods. I don’t know if she’s paranoid or has a serious security problem. Anyway, I’m about to find out because she’s following me up the stairs. The automatic spring closure shuts the door behind her and I hear the latch click shut and automatically lock. If she changes her mind about giving me an assignment, she won’t be able to escape without my key!
“I’m worried about my daughter,” she says quietly, looking around as though afraid of being overheard. “She’s involved with a much older man. He says he’s single, but I’m not so sure. I’m prepared to pay you well.”
Finally, money. This sort of investigation is fairly straightforward for anyone who knows how to do it, and hopefully I do. We did several examples on the residential course. Well, straightforward unless the man or woman in question has changed their name and assumed a completely new identity with a convincing back story. Then it’s a job for the police. They have legal access to all bank and social service records.
The woman has given me her name as Mrs Phyllis Miller. “Mrs Miller,” I say, “I need to establish one thing before I consider taking on this case. Supposing it turns out that this man is honourable, and is definitely not married, but is perhaps legally divorced. Would you still want your daughter to have a relationship with him?”
This is clearly a new thought, and she looks completely taken aback. “Would I?”
I don’t say anything. She seems to be talking to herself. She’s sitting bolt upright at the moment, staring straight ahead at something over my shoulder. Probably the stockroom window of the shoe shop opposite. I turned the desk round the moment I moved in. Pete came up and gave me a hand.
I think it’s important for the client to be facing the daylight, with my face slightly in shadow. It’s not as though I’m going to be holding an inquisition, but I feel that having my face in shadow will help the client relax as they share possible confidences. Confidences like concern over a daughter dating an older married man.
“I see what you mean,” Phyllis Miller says. “Do I really like Victor Armitage? That’s the question, isn’t it?”
I nod. “How old is your daughter?” Judging by Mrs Miller’s age, she’s going to be at least twenty, and therefore a legally consenting adult in any relationship. Except in a bigamous marriage, of course.
Mrs Miller seems to be muttering something to herself, and her eyes are now shut. She’s probably wondering whether I’m going to dismiss her concerns as just silly.
“Janika,” she says. “May I call you Janika?”
I nod, and she continues. “You’ve hit the nail on the head exactly. Laura is nearly twenty-three. Victor Armitage is far too old for her. He’s at least forty-five, and he’s almost bald.”
I’m assuming it’s the age rather than the lack of hair that’s worrying Mrs Miller. Yes, I can certainly see things from her point of view. If I had a daughter of twenty-three, I would want to check up on a much older man, even if he wasn’t married.
“So can you do something about it?” Mrs Miller asks.
I tell her my hourly rate, and say it could take several hours work, spread over a few days. Does she want me to go ahead?
I can tell how keen she is for me to dig the dirt on this Victor Armitage, judging by the way she doesn’t even hesitate. “Yes,” she says almost eagerly, “do it. Do you want me to sign something now?”
I feel obliged to tell her there is no guaranteed way to know if someone is married. The term “Marriage” is not as simple as it sounds. There is religious marriage, register office marriage, civil-law marriage, domestic partnership, invalid marriage where the priest or clerk has fraudulent credentials, and other types of marriage in foreign parts. Many legal marriages that are entered into the records in one country may end in divorce in another country without being cross-linked in any records.
Yes, if you want certain benefits, you need to produce proof of marriage. In some cases the court may accept wedding invitations and wedding photos in lieu of a marriage certificate as proof of marriage in another country like, say, Madagascar. Yes, I’ve really taken in a lot from my training, even though I haven’t really wanted to get involved in relationship problems.
Often you just have to trust the person from another country to tell you whether they are married or not. There’s no international body that keeps records of every marriage in every country every day. But in spite of that, with a bit of luck it can be surprisingly easy. It’s much easier to prove someone is married than to prove they’re not. Anyway, I tell Mrs Miller I’m prepared to have a go, although I don’t want to give her any false hopes by making any sort of promise.
I look at my spy clock on the wall. I can’t afford to let Mrs Miller walk away without signing the contract she seems keen to put her name to, but it means I’m going to miss calling at Tom and Daisy’s print shop on my way to Brevelstone to meet Courtney Jacobs. That’s okay, I’ll phone them as soon as Mrs Miller has gone and tell them to phone me if there’s a problem in logging into the clock and getting an image on the shop wi-fi ‒ and I’ll do my best to call in some time in the afternoon.
Half an hour later I leave for Brevelstone with my first paid commission. Mrs Miller has given me a generous fee upfront with bank transfer. Much better than getting checks that can bounce. Whoopee, all I have to do now is investigate Mr Victor Armitage to earn my money.
Mrs Miller has done most of the necessary homework for me. She has Victor’s address and his place of work. She says he speaks with a local accent, which means he is almost certainly not from Madagascar. A local search of the records may be all I need. Mrs Miller even has full details of his car, and his mobile phone number which she secretly got from her daughter’s phone. So no problems that I can see.
As I leave town to join the main road to Brevelstone, I look in the rear-view mirror. That black car has been behind me since I left Button Up. Is that going to be a problem?
Chapter 18
I have my camera with me. It’s digital, naturally, and compact. The fantastic lens has a surprisingly long zoom range for its size. Thirty times. The lens has exceptional definition, and the chip has so many pixels on it that the image can be enlarged substantially without losing much detail.
Thirty minutes later I’m approaching a place where the main road crosses a river on an old stone bridge. If that car really is following me, and if it’s being driven by one of the gang who killed Sam, I’m not going to stop by a bridge. I seem to remember there’s a turning to the picturesque village of Cravenwell not far ahead. I’m going to turn off there and see what happens.
I already have a good plan. Assuming the car follows me, I’m going to park in the centre of the village and start taking photographs of the old cottages. And then I’ll turn the car around and start to drive back to Button Up. It means I’ll have to phone Courtney and explain I’m going to be late, and of course give her the reason.
&nb
sp; If anything happens to me on the road, at least she’ll know about the problem, and I’ll probably have been able to give her the registration number of the black car that’s still behind me.
The turning to the village is signposted ahead, and I indicate left and slow right down, giving the black car plenty of warning. To my relief, it passes me just before I make the left turn. I glance up at my dash cam. Yes, it will definitely have recorded the registration plate, although it looks as though I panicked unnecessarily. And even if it’s not clear on the dash cam, I’ve remembered the registration, and immediately dictate it to a small USB recorder I keep in my pocket.
It’s illegal to hold a mobile phone while driving a car in England, even if it’s only to dictate something and not make a call. So far, the law doesn’t include dictating on a device that is independent of a mobile phone. Several items of my extensive range of equipment have already proved to be useful. There’s nothing like being well prepared.
What am I going to do now? Well, I’ve made the left turn, and although the black car hasn’t followed me, if I’m quick I can take a few photographs in the village. I can send them to my parents. I’m sure they’ll be interested to know what the picturesque countryside is like around where I’m working. I’ve already sent them a view of the road with Button Up and my sign in the upstairs window, but they haven’t got around to commentating on it yet.
I have a good memory for names and numbers, and just in case my dash cam and my USB digital recorder have failed, surely unlikely, I make a written note of the black car’s registration number. If I give it to Courtney, she will be able to run it through the police computer if she thinks there’s good enough reason to do it.
I’m parked outside a beautiful cottage with a thatched roof, and some sort of creeper trailing round the ancient oak door. Unfortunately, next to it is a Chinese takeaway. I suppose that’s what they call progress. Were there no planners prepared to stop the development? The village pub, The Three Horseshoes looks quaint, and definitely worth a photograph. And if I drive on down the road a bit, I can probably take a photograph of the cottage without including the takeaway.
The front of a black car slides slowly to a halt in a side road at the end of the main street. Surely, it can’t be. What should I do? Should I pretend I haven’t seen it? Should I go there and bang on the window and demand to know why I’m being followed? Would that put me at risk of being bundled inside and kidnapped?
I’m not thinking rationally. It might not even be the same car. Why would it be? There’s no one around. This must be the most deserted village in the whole county. The pub is closed, so I can’t go in there, although someone might be around. I can see two cars in the car park behind. There’s a small general store, which will provide some cover if I need to run for help.
I’m going to walk forward boldly, pretending to take photographs as I go, and read the car’s number plate from a safe distance. I feel really stupid for going through all this playacting. Then I remember something from the distance learning course I did. Be careful, be safe.
With that wise counsel in mind, I’m walking forward, stopping every now and then to take a photograph. I’m going to take a photograph of the front of the car, because I can’t quite see its registration plate clearly enough from here.
I keep walking nearer to the black car. It’s an Audi. It hasn’t moved since I saw it draw up, and I haven’t seen anyone get out of it. I guess the driver is still in there, but I’m not going to even glance at it. I’m acting as if it’s of no interest to me at all.
I’m holding my camera at my side as though I’m not about to use it, with my eyes fixed on the other side of the road. I pretend I’ve seen something interesting in the distance, but I pause just for a moment, and without raising the camera I fire off a sideways picture of the front of the black Audi.
My mouth feels dry. Be bold, Janika. You have to get used to situations like this. Just pretend this is nothing more than part of your residential training course.
I walk on a bit further and hold the camera up to photograph another quaint cottage. This one is standing back in a beautifully cared for garden with a wishing well that looks genuine. But instead of taking a photograph I flick back to see what I’ve already taken. No wonder my mouth feels dry. It’s the car that followed me here.
I’m now terrified of being snatched. If only there was someone around. Well, I can see an elderly man staring out from the cottage window. He waves to me, and it seems to be a friendly wave rather than one telling me to mind my own business and clear off.
He comes to the door. He’s smartly dressed with a tweed jacket. He’s even wearing a tie. My guess is that he’s ex-military. “It’s a beautiful old well, isn’t it,” he says. “When my grandparents lived here it was the only source of water they had.”
“That’s fascinating,” I say. “Can I come into the garden and take some photographs? I think it’s charming.”
“We get lots of visitors,” he says. “A lot of people don’t believe the well is real.” His eyes twinkle. “I assure them it is, but my father declared the well and the water unsafe, and sealed the top.”
I know my mouth is dry, very dry, and I’m desperate for a drink, but I share the opinion that the water might be dangerous. It probably was safe okay years ago, but now with so many drains and things around.... “I’m all right for now, thanks.”
It occurs to me that the water might never have been safe, not even in times gone by when typhoid was the killer disease. Isn’t typhoid a waterborne infection?
“Would you like to come in?” the elderly man asks.
I’m guessing he’s lonely. He probably looks out of the window most of the day, hoping to see someone to chat to. I look all around me, but only have one target in mind. The black car. It has moved forward slightly now, and the driver looks as though he’s staring at me, although the car is too far away to be sure. Time to set my little camera to maximum zoom.
I have to do this next step carefully. The elderly man comes into the garden to show me the well, and I ask if I can take a photograph of him by it. He looks thrilled at the prospect. As he stands almost rigidly to attention, I pretend to take a couple of photographs of him from one direction, but it has to be a pretence. I’m leaving my camera on full zoom. I point to the thatched roof and ask the man to look up at it.
He doesn’t query my request, even though it makes no sense to anyone actually taking a photograph. But as I raise my camera I’m looking at the screen, and there is the black car with a man watching me. The passenger window is wound down, and even though he’s in the driving seat on the opposite side of the car that’s over a hundred yards away, I’m confident I’ve got a clear picture of him, and I don’t think he’s realised what I’ve done.
I zoom back to a normal angle, and ask the elderly man to pose again so I can take the pictures of him and his well that he thinks I’ve already taken. It’s important to go through this charade. Within what seems like seconds I learn that the old man’s name is Wilfred Chadwick. He was a sergeant major in a local army regiment, and his father and grandfather were also in the same regiment. They both won medals, his grandfather in the First World War, and his father in the Second, although his grandfather was killed in France in 1917.
If I have time, he’d like to show me the collection. They both won medals. He’s been widowed for the last ten, and has a married daughter living nearby, although trying to read his body language there’s some sort of relationship problem there. Would I like a cup of tea?
Would I? Perfect. I have to phone Courtney and give her the registration number of the car. It’s unlikely Wilfred Chadwick will have wi-fi, so I may have to take a photograph of the camera screen with my phone and send her the picture of the driver as an attachment. If she says the quality isn’t good enough, I have a suitable lead in my bag in the boot of the Micra to connect the camera and phone together.
Wilfred goes into the tiny kitchen to make us some t
ea, and I explain I have to make a phone call. He points to his landline. I thank him, but tell him I need to use my own phone because I don’t know the number. It all sounds a bit confusing, but he smiles in a way that tells me he’s used to being confused, and disappears. I hear a tap running into what sounds like an old-fashioned kettle while I phone Courtney and explain the whole situation.
Ten minutes later, while sipping milky tea from a delicate floral decorated bone china cup with a matching saucer that must be at least a hundred years old, my phone rings. It’s Courtney, and she has news for me.
Chapter 19
“Janika, thanks for reporting this. We’ve identified the driver. He’s known as Gerry the Taff. He’s a small time Welsh crook, well known for selling his services to anyone who wants a bit of surveillance. You did well to spot him. He’s obviously not as invisible as he likes to think he is.”
I suppose that’s good news. “So what am I going to do now? Does it matter if he follows me all the way to Brevelstone central police station?”
I can hear a sharp intake of breath from Courtney. “No, don’t do that, Janika. He’s not likely to be dangerous, but we don’t know who he’s working for at the moment. But I assure you we’re going to find out. I’ve managed to contact DI Dickinson, and naturally he’s concerned. He approves of the playacting you’ve done so far, and suggests you return to your office, and perhaps pause to take a few more pictures at various beauty spots on the way back. Gerry the Taff isn’t that bright, and he might report back that he’s made a mistake and you’re just a normal tourist.”
“I don’t understand how he knew I’ve stopped here in the village,” I say.
Courtney laughs. “He’s probably put a tracker on your car.”
I shake my head, even though Courtney obviously can’t see me. “Not on my car. I checked it the other day. Oh!” I feel so stupid. “Before you say anything, Courtney, from now on I’ll check it every day before I go anywhere. What do you suggest I do? There’s no point in trying to lose him on the way back to the office, is there?”