by Lizzie Lewis
“People would know where to find you,” Abi says. “The Button Up coffee shop is well known in town. Well, quite well known. Especially amongst workers in the offices.” She stops for a moment. “You’ll have to meet my husband Danny. He’s a junior solicitor with Branks, Davis & Waters. They’re a large legal firm in Jubilee Street. I’m sure they could use you. Well, I can’t guarantee it of course. What sort of work are you planning to do here? That is, if you really want this apartment. No pressure, but please say yes. I’d just love it if you came, Janika!”
It all sounds a bit too easy. Now that I finally have Sam’s life insurance money and a generous payout by the police for death while on duty, I can easily afford it. Unfortunately, I was evicted and our furniture got repossessed before the coroner officially ruled a verdict of murder by person or persons unknown, and I can’t stay with Sam’s friends in Brevelstone much longer. So I definitely need somewhere to live.
Abi seems to notice my hesitation, and mistakes it for uncertainty. “I’d love you to have it, Janika. And I know Danny would, too. The monthly rent is only a suggestion. How about if we give you a generous discount?”
Just as long as you don’t interfere too much, I’m thinking, but I’m definitely not going to say it. I’ve done a residential course and distance learning with exams over the past six months to get my qualifications, plus a comprehensive course of self defence. I don’t have a certificate for that, but I still have bruises as proof.
Anyone can be a private investigator in England, but to be taken seriously you need to have a couple of impressive certificates on the wall, and the backing of a reputable organisation. Plus, of course, the knowledge. I didn’t realise all the potential pitfalls until I started the course.
It’s easy to mess up and spoil a possible criminal investigation, or even a private one – like recovering Sam’s gold cross by myself, without any witnesses. I’m not wearing that gold cross. I don’t think it would be honest to do it. But I carry it with me everywhere in my bag.
I have a private investigator’s license in the UK, issued by the Security Industry Authority, or SIA. It’s not essential at the moment, but I suspect it will be soon, and I want to be ahead in the game when the time comes.
“I definitely want to take it, Abi,” I hear myself saying. “And if you’re serious about the name of the Button Up Detective Agency, that sounds better than my suggestion. It really does. The rent is fine. Honestly it is. I’ve already kitted myself out with an advanced bug detector, surveillance cameras and listening equipment. And quite a few more things. It cost several grand altogether, but it’s all paid for. I want to start off as a fully fledged detective. I’ve got more than enough put aside to do pro bono work until my name gets known. I’m even prepared to pay you for the name.”
“We’ll see about that,” Abi says.
I’m not exactly sure what we’ll see about. Presumably I’m paying the full rent and able to use the suggested name. That’s fine with me.
“Come down and meet the gang,” Abi says. “Melanie will be back with Liam. She went to pick him up from school. Melanie Donovan is the co-owner with me of Button Up. Button Up comes in putting our two surnames together.”
“Button Donovan?”
That really makes Abi laugh. She seems to be getting over the traumatic account of my past. “She used to be called Melanie Upton. So, Button Up. But I’m now Wells, and she’s Donovan, and as I’ve said to people before, the name of the coffee shop doesn’t make sense now. But that’s what it is, and that’s what it always will be while Melanie and I are the owners. Just about everyone still thinks of me as Abi Button. It’s not a problem.” And she shrugs.
I’m not sure I feel ready to meet what she calls the gang. I want to get back to Brevelstone. The friends with whom I’m staying will be expecting me. Maybe I’ll phone them and explain the good news that I’ve found the perfect location for my new venture. I will be the only private detective in a town where there’s a large legal practice where it seems I already have one foot in the door. Well, tentatively in the door. How good is that!
I’m not really in the mood for meeting new people. Just reliving Sam’s death has drained me of all energy, and I’ve not told Abi that the police haven’t yet managed to track down Sam’s killers. But that item of bad news can definitely wait.
Abi has a pleading look in her eyes, and I can tell she wants me to meet what she calls the gang down below. So I give in. Melanie seems a happy sort of person. I’m surprised to see that she’s older than Abi – by a good ten years. She is also shorter than me, but obviously weighs more. A lot more. She introduces me to a small boy with ginger hair. Apparently it’s her stepson, and he’s called Liam.
Liam looks excited when he hears I’m a private detective. “Do you have a gun?” he asks enthusiastically. “Can I see it? Have you ever shot anyone?”
It seems almost cruel to disappoint him. “No gun,” I say. “Private detectives in England aren’t allowed guns.”
“Have you ever used one?”
I nod, so at least I’m able to satisfy him to a certain extent. “On a firing range in Poland. My father wanted me to learn, but it was a long time ago. Anyway, I’m not exactly an expert shot, and I don’t need a gun here in England. I don’t do dangerous work. You’d probably think it’s all rather boring. I’m going to help trace people who have gone missing, and check up on people who are supposed to be behaving themselves at work, but might be stealing or spending their time doing something else.”
“I suppose that’s cool,” he says, sounding slightly disillusioned. Then he smiles. “Do you know Sherlock Holmes?”
I nod. “Very well.”
“Wow,” Liam says, “you must be very old. Even older than Melanie. You don’t look it.”
“I mean I know the Sherlock Holmes stories well,” I say.
Melanie bats the boy away playfully, and anyway Liam seems to be losing interest. What else am I planning to do in my new detective agency? Liam is too young to be told I may be asked to investigate straying partners, and it’s not work I’m going to feel comfortable with. On the positive side, if it means stopping a husband or wife being betrayed and perhaps losing a large sum of money, I’ll have to consider taking it on. But I don’t want to do sneaky. Definitely not sneaky.
“Mystery shopping,” I say. The coffee shop only has a couple of customers, and the young man, Pete Wilders, seems to be more than capable of sorting out their orders. He’s also been joined by a young friend who also seems to be working here, but I don’t know who she is. No doubt I’ll be told soon enough.
“Mystery shopping?” Melanie asks. “Does someone pay you to go shopping? That sounds like my sort of work.”
“They do,” I tell her. “Haven’t you ever wanted to complain about the service you get in a shop?”
Both Melanie and Abi nod vigorously.
“Well,” I explain, “if the management at head office get a lot of complaints, they need someone to test out the shopping experience. Or maybe they just want it checked out anyway, even if there haven’t been complaints. So a private detective gets called in to play the part of the customer. Perhaps playing the part of an awkward customer, and making a note of what happens. Small shops may suspect that someone is fiddling the sales, and pocketing some of the money. Or a supermarket till operator might be ringing things through at a reduced price for friends, or ringing an expensive item through on top of a cheap one, so only the bottom barcode gets read.”
Young Liam has returned, probably in the hope of hearing something exciting connected with my work, and his reaction is predictable. “That is boring,” is his contribution to the discussion.
I soon learn that the young girl is called Hayley, and she is also a student. She and Pete seem remarkably close, in all senses of the word. I smile to myself. Young love. Then a sudden jolt hits me as I recall my early experience of young love in Poland with Bruno, at the tender age of eighteen, and how it ended in trag
edy. It’s the chief reason I came back to England, much to my parents’ displeasure.
Liam is told to scoot off and get himself a jam doughnut and take it into the storeroom and let the grown-ups talk business. Since the discussion is, in his words boring, he seems happy enough to go. So we three adults discuss the terms and conditions of the rental, and Abi says her husband has already drawn up the necessary lease. All he has to do is to fill in my name. And although she obviously feels embarrassed to be saying it, Abi tells me it will be necessary to check my financial status.
“No problem,” I say. I’ve already anticipated that. The insurance and other payouts are safely banked. “I’ll authorise you to contact my bank.”
I didn’t think I’d ever be saying that, after Sam died. Evicted and homeless, and no prospect of any income. The hairstylist job hadn’t materialised, and no local salons were looking for stylists. Life certainly moved on when I turned amateur detective and spotted Sam’s gold cross pushed tightly into the gap between the stones on the bridge, so ruling out suicide. I can only hope life will continue to move on now that I’m about to turn professional.
Chapter 5
I’m back home now in Brevelstone, where I’ve been living with Jezza and Rachel since Sam’s death. They seem as excited as I am about the apartment above the coffee shop. I’m hoping it’s not because they want to see me gone. No, I’m sure it’s not that.
Jezza and Rachel were friends Sam knew when he was young. We met up with them after we were married and they invited us to church. Certainly something happened to Sam there, and he kept wanting to go. It annoyed me when he tried to explain what had happened, and we came to a compromise. I would go with him on Sundays, as long as he didn’t talk to me about it. He said that was a fair deal, and I could tell church meant something more to him than just religion. Now, if it meant having Sam back, I’d go with him a hundred times a week!
Jezza and Rachel have turned out to be great friends, and they certainly didn’t try preaching to me when I was at my most vulnerable. However, they said they were praying for me, and they did offer me great practical support, including making sure I still went to live with them in their large Victorian house when I was made homeless, even though Sam had died.
I keep forgetting I’m a widow. I’m not a widow who wears black widow’s weeds, or whatever mourning clothes are called nowadays. I didn’t even wear black for Sam’s funeral. I wanted to celebrate his life. Our life. I felt sure he wouldn’t have wanted me wearing all black.
I wondered at the time if he was watching the funeral service from heaven. He was sure he was going there, and I know he wanted me to join him when the time came. I don’t think I’ve ever been good enough to deserve a place. Not that Sam was perfect in every way, but he was a great husband. But he definitely seemed sure about having a place. I hope for his sake it wasn’t wishful thinking.
I’m thinking back to the police investigation that Courtney helped reopen, just when the case seemed closed and the coroner was about to pronounce a damning verdict. I’m picturing it all now.
Courtney has just phoned Detective Inspector Dickinson to explain what we’ve just discovered. I don’t think he sounded that impressed, but he’s promised to pass the news on to the Chief Inspector. He must have done it immediately, because Courtney has just got a call to tell her to stay where she is, and guard the scene.
She winks at me. “I don’t know what DI Dickinson said, but something is definitely happening. Forensics are on their way.”
The probably don’t want to think one of them has taken their own life. They’d much rather have a crime to investigate. I’m hoping they’re not doing it just for the sake of an exciting job, but to get justice. I’m sure that’s what Courtney means. Courtney tells me I can leave her now, but I want to stay.
“Just as long as you keep well back,” she says. “I’m sure you realise just how important it is to let the team get on with their work.”
That rather disappoints me. I want to tell them my theory about the pendant, but I guess it’s time to keep my mouth shut. Courtney understands the situation probably better than I do. But it will be interesting to watch the crime scene team in action.
Detective work can be exciting at times, although Sam assured me there are a lot of boring, routine tasks involved, and plenty of paperwork. Courtney has already explained to the forensic team about the need to recover the gold cross, and they seem to be going about it in a very methodical way. I can’t believe I was even thinking about getting a long bamboo cane from the hardware store and a metal screw hook, and fishing it up myself.
No, that clearly isn’t the way. The team have brought a long extending ladder. Courtney explains to me that the first thing they need to do is take detailed photographs of the cross to show exactly where it is, and how firmly it’s fixed in the wall. After all, she points out, it might just have snagged there while Sam fell.
I point out that the leather cord would have broken if that was the case, but Courtney says that if the placing of the cross is going to be used as evidence of murder, every little detail counts. I guess she’s right. Yes, there’s certainly a lot of detail needed in detective work if evidence is going to be used to prove the case. I’m wondering if I can follow in Sam’s footsteps, but not in the police force. Maybe privately. I give myself a mental slap on the wrist. Stop daydreaming, Janika!
I can’t believe how long this is taking. While the cross is being recovered, a young woman wearing white coveralls and a mask is painstakingly scraping what looks like the bloodstain from the concrete slab on top of the parapet. She looks at me, and seems to be smiling behind the mask.
“Well spotted,” she says.
I’m about to ask why it got overlooked the first time, but I guess that everyone thought it was suicide, because of that phone call. Right, I decide, I’m going to play detectives myself. I’m going to track that woman down. Not that I have a clue how to do it.
If I believed in prayer, then I would have to think that some higher power had just read my thoughts and decided to answer them instantly.
“What’s going on here?” a middle aged woman asks. She has a camera round her neck and a recorder in her hand. “We got a tipoff from a member of the public who was passing.”
“Sorry, no press,” Courtney tells her quickly. “This is an ongoing investigation. We’ll tell you more later.”
“This is where the man jumped, isn’t it?” The woman must be a reporter. She has her camera already switched on and ready for action.
“Sorry,” Courtney says again, “I must ask you to move on.”
The woman is already taking photographs, and leans over the parapet a bit further down the bridge and spots the ladder. Without a word she goes to the start of the bridge and is obviously going down to the concrete area where the crime team ladder is resting.
I make an instant decision. I make it before I can even run it through my mind to see if it’s sensible. “Hold on,” I call, hurrying after her. “I’m Janika Jones. It was my husband who ... died here.”
Died here? That probably describes it best. I’m not going to use the word murder yet, and certainly not suicide.
The reporter stops instantly. She even has the cheek to whip the camera up and take a photograph of me. I’m still grieving, and can do without the publicity, but I guess that’s the press for you.
At the moment the reporter seems in a dilemma. Should she talk to me, or get a photograph of one of the crime scene team at the top of the ladder trying to recover the gold cross? She manages to do both, beckoning to me to walk down with her onto the area of concrete.
Now I’m wondering if I’m about to do the right thing. If the phone call from the so-called witness was genuine, and Sam was really on his own and about to jump, then the coroner will definitely rule out murder, irrespective of what the crime scene team are finding at this moment. My only hope is that she was confused by what she saw, and there were actually two people there, not
just one. Or, more likely, the call was a hoax from one of the murderers, to stop a police investigation.
The reporter introduces herself as Morgan, and she works for the local newspaper. I know it. It’s mostly advertisements, and only comes out on a Friday. It’s Thursday now, so hopefully it hasn’t already been put to bed, or whatever the expression is.
I explain about the so-called witness who made the phone call, which is news to Morgan. I can see her eyes light up. She’s managed to get an exclusive. Now, of course, I’m wondering if I’m giving away potential evidence, but I don’t really care. It seems that the police have already made up their mind it was suicide, so what’s wrong with me telling about the phone call? I haven’t been told to keep it secret.
I notice that her small digital recorder is running, if the small red light is anything to go by. Morgan even takes another picture of me with the bridge and the ladder in the background. What do I care!
Morgan smiles as I tell her what I want. And she nods, holding the small digital recorder that still has the red light on, and says, “A plea for the woman to come forward? The police haven’t asked us to do this, but we’ll definitely get it in the paper tomorrow. I guarantee it.”
“The thing is, I suspect my husband was murdered, but please don’t say that at the moment, not while the police are still investigating. If the call was genuine, why didn’t the woman leave her name?”
Morgan is shaking her head. “There might be all sorts of reasons why she’s chosen to remain anonymous. She might be married and was visiting her lover. She would have known her phone wasn’t registered. Do you see what I mean?”
“I do,” I say. “I definitely do, but if it was a genuine call, and she doesn’t mind coming forward, she might have seen something happening that she didn’t realise was important. I’ll be frank with you, Morgan. The crime scene team are here now because I believe there’s evidence that Sam was murdered.”
