Mr Crickle,
Any word on the Uber contract yet? Even an outline of the case would be good. Do you want a local case – Southend focus only? Or Essex and London, or are we talking about supply lines in from the continent? Each would involve a different level of work, commitment and risk. I’m willing to look at all options. I need to know what you, the Trust, wants before we can move forward.
Looking forward to your response,
Dan Bradley.
Dan pinged the email and looked back at the clock. It was still just before eleven, and he was only on his second mug of coffee of the day.
“When’s the new client due in?”
“We’ve got Ronson in at quarter past,” said Mark. The kid’s voice was still a soulless monotone, Marvin the Paranoid Android. One part self-pity to two parts depression – at least that was Dan’s best guess. But it didn’t stop the maudlin tone from being something of a chore to Dan’s ears.
“You hungry, Mark?”
Mark grunted as he typed something at his computer.
“Mark – I said are you hungry? Because I think a bacon sandwich might liven you up a bit. It’d do the job for me anyway. Any chance you could scoot down to the café to grab us a couple of bacon sandwiches before Ronson? Mine has plenty of ketchup.”
Dan had fished a screwed-up fiver and loose change from his pocket before Mark had given an answer. Mark finished his typing with a flourish then turned to face Dan’s desk.
“You want a bacon sandwich,” said Mark.
“And so do you,” said Dan. “Only you didn’t know it until now. And what did you make of the last client?”
Dan stood up and dropped the money into Mark’s hand. The kid sighed and shrugged.
“Simon Mundy? Seemed a bit of a timewaster, if I’m being honest. He was far too speculative. Non-committal. Even if he comes back, I don’t think it would ever turn into a paying job.”
“I don’t think so either. I’m not sure I want another runaway case. Not after the last debacle.”
“I’m beginning to wonder where all these strange inquiries are coming from. That was the third already this week. Must be some kind of a record for a Tuesday morning.”
Dan nodded. “But only in recent times. In the good old days, it was better still. We were able to pick and choose whatever we liked. Who knows? Maybe the good times are coming back? It pays to look on the bright side. Don’t you think?”
“Does it?” said Mark.
Dan rolled his eyes. “Just go and get us both a bacon sandwich, will you? I don’t want this Ronson character to me drooling over the keyboard.”
“Gross. Okay. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Atta boy. White bread, doorstep thick if they’ve got it, and don’t forget the ketchup.”
Resigned to the task, Mark nodded and headed for the door. But before his hand reached the handle, a short man with a round head dotted with thinning wiry brown hair walked into the recess and blocked the doorway. Mark looked at the short man as he dithered in front of the door. He was middle-aged, portly, a little weak looking, and had something of a studious, or maybe a thoughtful look about him. Or maybe it was a vacant look. Something about the unblinking stare made it hard to tell. Even as Mark and the stranger looked at one another through the glass door, the man still knocked as if he couldn’t be seen. Mark pulled open the door and stepped back.
“Mr Ronson?” he asked.
The man smacked his lips, nodded, and pushed his spectacles back up his small nose. His mouth stayed open.
“Yes, that’s me. Andy Ronson. Can I come in?”
“Mr Ronson! You’re early!” said Dan, standing up at the back of the office. Mark noticed a hint of irritation in Dan’s voice. He was angry but doing his best to hide it.
“I’ll go out right after the meeting,” said Mark, stepping back into the office. He pointed a guiding hand towards the chair in front of Dan’s desk, and closed the office door as Ronson walked inside. Ronson seemed a little confused. Maybe vacant was the best description after all.
“Were you going somewhere?” said Ronson in a soft voice, looking back.
“Don’t worry, Mr Ronson. Mark was going on an errand, but as of this moment you’re our number one priority.”
Dan offered the man a hand; Ronson took it. His handshake was weak, soft and limp. Worse, the man’s hand was damp. As Dan took back his hand, he eyed his fingers and as he sat down he deftly slid his hand over his jeans beneath the desk. Hand gel, thought Dan. Buy some hand gel. Already, Dan had the feeling that he was face to face with another timewaster. What was it with these new clients? Which hole were they crawling from?
“Can we get you a cup of coffee?” said Dan.
“What? Me? Not for me. I’m a teapot,” said Ronson with a smile. On first impressions Dan couldn’t disagree.
“Fine. Mark, get the man a tea, will you?”
Mark walked to the kitchen and put the kettle on. There was a brief silence while Ronson and Dan regarded one another. Pretty often, the client was so nervous that they ended up filling the silence with bluster about their needs, hopes, and intentions in hiring a PI. But Ronson stayed quiet, his staring eyes benign and affable, like a small mammal hoping for a snack. Somehow Dan was reminded of a schoolboy hoping to win a stare-out contest with his friend.
“So,” said Dan, laying his hands on the desk. “You wanted to see us…?”
“Yes, since you come so highly recommended.”
“Well, that’s very good to hear. So why do you need a private investigator, Mr Ronson? Pardon me for saying, but you don’t seem the type.”
Ronson nodded. “Me? No. Probably not. And to be honest I really wasn’t sure about it at first. I really didn’t know where I should go with this. But the police plainly weren’t interested in any of my personal problems, so it occurred to me to hire a private detective.”
“Your personal problems?” said Dan with a frown. “Why would you want to take your personal problems to the police – or a PI for that matter? I’m not sure I understand.”
“Yes. Personal problems. At least that’s how the police defined it. To me it’s not so much my problem, but theirs…”
“Whose? The police?” said Dan, shaking his head.
Ronson scratched at an itch on the loose skin beneath his chin. Ronson had too much loose skin. He looked like a man who had recently been heavy and had lost weight too fast for his skin to catch up.
“No. The problem caused by my neighbours. They’re bad people, believe me. Always at home. Always acting odd. Always having strange guests and keeping odd hours. They’re noisy too. Terribly noisy and that’s not all of it. And I’m not just concerned for me. I’m concerned for my neighbours too. About their children. There’s this one girl in particular, very impressionable, very young… she’s the daughter of the Mellots at number fifty-two, and she seems taken with these awful neighbours of mine. I don’t know why, because they’re bad people. I just know it.”
“Wait a second,” said Dan. He picked up a biro with an end which had been chewed flat and started to write notes in a heavy hand. The notes slanted across the pad. He kept his writing free and loose and messy, hoping it would stay obscured from the man seated before him.
Ronson case. Bad neighbours. Concerned about neighbours’ daughter. Bad people. Bad how? Ronson seems weird.
Here Dan paused, his pen hovering over the pad a moment before he added – Real or Imaginary? Another weird obsessive type? The writing was barely legible even to himself. Dan laid the pen down and contrived to offer a faux-contemplative face.
“You know, I’m not entirely sure a private investigator is what you need.”
“Really? I’ve only just started explaining the problem. But you seem very sure all of a sudden. Why? What other kind of help do you think I might need?”
“Well, there’s a full range of options, isn’t there…” said Dan. He tailed off, struggling already.
Mark walked in with the
drinks. Dan took his time taking his coffee from Mark’s hand and took a long slow sip. Ronson took his tea, sipped and smacked his lips. He seemed to be a lip smacker. Dan narrowed his eyes.
“Such as?” said Ronson.
“Well, depending on the nature of the complaint,” said Dan. “Or the problem. A neighbourhood dispute could be solved by involving the police.”
“Weren’t you listening? I just told you they don’t want to know.”
“Maybe you tried the wrong team. Try the police PCSO team. Or maybe you should go down the Citizens Advice Bureau route. They could explain your rights in a sensitive neighbour dispute situation.”
“This isn’t a dispute with a neighbour. None of those are options here. Not with what I’m facing. Not with the level of stress it’s causing me… or all the risks I’m seeing.”
“Stress?” said Dan, nodding sagely. “In a situation like yours, in a personal matter, maybe counselling would be the best course of action.”
“Counselling? Are you serious? The last people I spoke to wrote me off before I had the chance to explain, but I haven’t even told you a thing and you’re closing me down without a chance.”
“No, Mr Ronson,” said Dan. “I’m not closing you down. I’m trying to save you time. To find the best kind of help for you. The best fit.”
“The best fit? Counselling?” Ronson looked at Mark and pushed his spectacles back up his nose. The man’s little eyes looked like they were pleading for help.
“Can you make him listen to me? I’m serious. I’m at the end of my tether here. You’re the fourth set of people I’ve spoken to about this issue, and it’s getting worse. It’s been weeks already. They’re gearing up for something, I’m telling you.”
“We’re the fourth set of people?” said Dan. “And the others before us couldn’t help you?”
“They didn’t help me. There’s a big difference,” said Ronson. His eyes flitted between Mark and Dan. Mark’s face betrayed a hint of wavering. Ronson noticed the change and turned the full beam of his benign gaze back onto Mark.
Mark sipped his coffee and stood at the side of the desk. He turned his eyes away from Ronson and looked at Dan.
“I think we should hear him out.”
“Thank you!” said Ronson with exaggerated gratitude and an emphatic nod of the head.
Dan took a deep breath and sat back in his chair.
“Fine. I think Mark has maybe seen something I haven’t. You know what, Mark, why don’t you take the lead on this interview?”
“What?” said Mark, surprised. For days the kid had seemed disconnected from the mains. Distant. Ambivalent. Suddenly put on the spot, Dan watched the kid come back to life, his eyes filling with sudden anxiety.
“I think it’s a good idea,” said Dan. “I’m right beside you. Are you okay with that, Mr Ronson?”
“Of course I am. So long as this ends up being dealt with, I don’t care who listens.”
Mark frowned and gulped down a third of his coffee cup. The coffee was so hot he made a face but gulped it down regardless. He took a chair from Eva’s desk and slid it up at the side of Dan’s. “Can I borrow those?” said Mark. He took Dan’s chewed pen and curly-cornered notepad. He read Dan’s notes, even the illegible ones and raised an eyebrow. Dan tried to hide the smirk on his face, but not quickly enough to avoid Mark seeing it.
“Okay… where to begin?” said Mark
“I’ll summarise the best I can,” said Ronson. “I live in a cul-de-sac, in Basildon. Carberry Close. outside Basildon. It’s quiet there. Least it used to be quiet until these bloody strange bohemian studenty types moved in next door. That’s what I thought they were. That’s what they looked like. I didn’t like them then, but I made sure I was polite. But things soon escalated. Now they’re out of control and I’m always on edge.”
“You’re always on edge…” said Dan.
Mark and Ronson let Dan’s comment hang in the air.
“So they’re students?” said Mark.
“That’s what they told me, but I don’t think so anymore. And I really don’t want to talk to them at all now. They just came right out with it, as if it was a good excuse for all their weird behaviour. The noise. The shouting, The nonsense with all the bags of equipment and parties.”
“Weird behaviour? Equipment?” said Mark. He twiddled the pen in his hand and waited for more.
“I don’t know why. And I don’t know what equipment they have, but there’s lots of it. They bring it round in bags.”
“That’s what people use,” said Dan. “Bags. There’s nothing weird about bags.” Dan couldn’t help butting in.
“You’re turning what I say against me. They use all kinds of bags. Not carrier bags!”
“Do they turn what you say against you, too?”
Ronson turned red. “Sometimes, yes, they do.”
Dan and Mark exchanged the briefest of glances.
Beyond the desk, the front door opened and the old shop bell on the wall gave its shrill ring. Ronson looked back. Mark and Dan looked up as Eva walked in, her mobile phone still pressed to her ear. She greeted them all with a flick of her eyebrows, before she closed the door and drifted to her desk and put down her handbag.
“No, Lauren. Of course, I’m interested. But you are aware that I’ve already done exactly what we agreed at the outset. And there’s been no trouble since, has there? Well… has there?”
The three men kept their gazes on Eva. Ronson seemed fascinated. Eva looked around, her hand covering the mouthpiece.
“Sorry,” she muttered. “You know who. I’ll take this outside.”
“The wonderful Miss Jaeger?”
“Yeah. She’s worried about something.”
“Tell her you’re worried about something too. Tell her you’re worried about getting paid and getting your life back.”
Eva shot Dan a look over Ronson’s head. He held up his hands in mock surrender. Eva turned away and walked back out of the door leaving the bell ringing in their ears.
“Who was that?” said Ronson. “Was that the boss?”
“You hit the nail right on the head,” said Dan. “She’s the boss.”
“Then maybe I should speak to her instead.”
“Please just run it by us first. Don’t worry. Miss Roberts will get involved as soon as she can.”
Mark tapped the notepad with his pen. “Weird behaviour and equipment. Are we talking loud late night parties and student pranks or something else? Some of my friends are students. It would be really frustrating to live next to all that.”
Ronson shook his head and sighed. “No, I’m telling you. It’s nothing like that. These people are older students, not in their teens. It’s a house share. A couple of them are younger, your age or so. Mostly male, just one girl. They all wear black clothes, and two of them have this horrible bleached blond hair. Like when the bleaching has gone wrong. That’s the guy and the girl. And when they’re not arguing, drinking or banging around, then they talk about film all the time. They do stuff at all times of the day or night. I’m telling you, something’s going on in there and it isn’t good, and they don’t like me because I challenge them on it. But they’re beginning to scare me. They make noises at night, they close the curtains during the day… I’ve even tried to contact the landlord, I know he wouldn’t like it, but I can’t locate the name or number and I’ve not seen him for a couple of years. Look, I need help with these people, before something bad happens.”
“Mr Ronson, forgive me for saying this,” said Mark. “But so far, none of what you’ve said sounds criminal.”
“You’ve got to do what I’ve done,” said Ronson.
“Which is?” said Mark.
“Read between the lines. They’re up to no good. This is a horror movie waiting to happen.”
Mark looked at his notes. “That’s not what I’m seeing so far. I mean, you might have grounds for a complaint to the council…”
“What are you talking ab
out? These aren’t council properties. This a private road. This is not a noise complaint, this is about me knowing something bad is going on. And if it hasn’t happened already, it soon will!”
“Look, even if they’re not council properties,” said Dan, “There are rules about what is generally acceptable. Rules about noise levels too.”
“You still don’t get it, do you?”
“No, not quite,” said Mark.
“Why do people keep pigeonholing me! I’m trying to stop something awful happening to someone. I don’t know what they are. Freaks. Satanists. Drug abusers. But whatever, these people are dark, and they pose a threat to people. Right now they pose a threat to me!”
“They’re mature students. They’re in a house share…” Mark looked down at the notes he had added to Dan’s list. “They wear black have bleached hair and keep unsocial hours. They have bags of equipment and talk about films? Do you think they could be filming in the house?”
Ronson shuffled on his chair.. His face brightened and he pointed a finger at Mark like he’d worked out a significant clue in a game of charades. “That’s it! Now you’re getting it! You’re reading between the lines.”
“So…” said Mark. “Are they film students?”
Ronson sat back and folded his arms. “I don’t see them studying anything. And I don’t care what they say they’re studying, that’s all a ruse. They’re not who they say they are. They’re doing things in that house that shouldn’t be done. Our houses are semi-detached. The walls are way too thin. What I hear at night freaks me out. I can’t rest because of it. Look at me, I’m a nervous wreck, I’m exhausted…”
Dan couldn’t help nodding in agreement. “What do you think you’re hearing, Mr Ronson?” said Dan.
“I’m not a prude. I know I’m hearing them having sex sometimes. I know what that sounds like. But it’s the other stuff. The strange sounds. Weirdo noises from nowhere. Then silences, then bangs, and then laughter. It’s odd. And then they’re back to the sex noises and the shouting again at any time of day or night. I don’t know if someone’s being hurt in there. And that’s what really bothers me. I have to do something about it. That’s why I’m here.”
Play With Fire Page 4
