by Lizzie Lewis
I’m not sure if he’s just making polite conversation, or if he has a possible assignment in mind. My first real job!
“Are you expensive?”
I assume he’s asking about my fees, not anything personal. After all, he’s wearing a wedding ring. I don’t know if running a print shop is lucrative, but the young man doesn’t look especially wealthy. “Do you have something in mind?”
“It’s my little girl,” he says. “My wife Daisy will be here soon. This is our print shop business. We can’t very well bring little Katie to work, except in emergencies. So we get my Nan to look after Katie in the daytime.”
It’s my job as a detective to gather all the facts, not jump to conclusions with insufficient evidence. Even so, I think the man is about to tell me there’s some sort of problem with his grandmother ‒ and it’s not medical.
“Go on,” I say.
He’s looking embarrassed. “I’ve heard you can hide a secret camera inside a clock or ornament, can’t you?”
If I have to jump to a conclusion, I know where this is going. “You think there’s a problem at home when you and your wife aren’t there?”
He nods. “Since my Nan has been coming in, Katie seems to have been falling rather a lot. I don’t like to say it, but I think you’ll guess what we suspect. Katie is three years old, and quite steady on her feet. Every morning when my Nan comes in, Katie starts crying and hiding behind the curtains. Do you know where I can buy something with a camera hidden inside it?”
I feel so, so sorry. I desperately want to help, and I have the perfect clock I can lend him. Something pings in my head. I’ve just seen a brilliant way to advertise my services, without it costing me.
“In the circumstances, I’m happy to help. And it won’t cost you a penny. I have exactly the clock you need in my office.”
Actually, I have two such clocks. One of them is on the office wall recording everything that happens. It’s for my own security, in case a client turns violent. What client?
“I can come round this evening and set everything up. I take it you have wi-fi.”
The man tells me he’s called Tom Macdonald, and he nods. Yes, he has wi-fi. How will that help?
I’m about to explain, when Tom’s wife Daisy arrives. I wait for Daisy to get behind the counter before I say anything more. I’m wondering what Daisy will think of Tom’s plan to spy on his grandmother.
Tom shows Daisy my artwork that’s still on the monitor, and they have a confidential discussion. Daisy is looking back at me and she’s smiling. It seems she and Tom are on the same page. “How much will all this camera equipment cost to set up?”
I return the smile. “I’m happy to do it for free. I can come round and set it up this evening, if that’s okay. There’s just one condition.”
Tom and Daisy look at each other.
“There’s just one condition,” I repeat. “In return, I would like you to put a few flyers and my business cards on the counter.”
Judging by their smiles, it looks as though we’re getting a deal that suits both of us. I’ll only be lending them the clock for a few days, and since I already have one, it isn’t going to cost me anything. “But I insist I pay for the printing.”
I’m outside the print shop now. “Well,” I say aloud, “that certainly went well. Even if only one person comes to give me work because of the flyers on the counter, it will be sufficient reward. I wonder if Abi and Melanie will let me leave some on the counter at Button Up. Maybe even at the phone shop, which is where I have to go now.”
I need to hurry to the phone shop. I have to be back in plenty of time to receive the sign and let the locksmith get to work.
Chapter 12
As I step into the small, untidy shop, arrayed with a range of phones both new and used, I’m wishing I’d waited until I had some business cards. I’m about to ask the young guy behind the counter if he will check my phone over for any possible nasties. It would look much more impressive if I had one of my cards.
He doesn’t laugh when I explain I’m a private investigator. Perhaps he even believes me. I tell him I want my phone serviced, and while he’s at it, would he just check that there is no spyware, including a tracker. I manage to force an embarrassed smile as I ask.
To my surprise, he’s taking the request seriously. Perhaps he likes playing at spies, and this is his first chance to get involved.
“How long will it take?” I ask. “I really don’t want to be without a phone for long.” And now I have to present a convincing case for needing a burner phone, which hopefully he’ll let me have without too much fuss. “Tell you what, I could do with a cheap backup phone. Something I can just top up at the supermarket or the cashpoint. Because of my sensitive work, I don’t always want my phone calls to be traced back to me.” I put on a winning smile. “Nothing illegal, but I just need to be careful sometimes. Private investigation work can be dangerous.”
That’s a lie. Well, it’s not really a lie if I’m talking about private investigation work in general. It’s just that mine is unlikely to be dangerous, but of course it’s always possible. That makes me feel better. Or perhaps worse.
Business seems to be quiet, and I get his full attention. He suggests I don’t buy a cheap phone, but a refurbished good quality one for the same price. That sounds great, and within ten minutes I’m on my way back to Button Up with a classy phone with an unregistered pay-as-you-go SIM card preloaded with twenty pounds. I’m hoping no one needs to contact me urgently, as obviously no one will be able to phone me on this. Even I can’t remember the number yet, but I have it written down. Anyway, he’s promised my regular phone by three o’clock this afternoon, and I guess that’s not going to present me with any problems.
It’s not quite yet ten o’clock, and I can see Button Up at the end of the road. There’s no one hanging around outside, so I’m probably back in time. I go in and ask Abi if anyone has been looking for me. No one has. But just as that moment I see a large van arrive outside with sign writing all over it.
I hurry out and open the street door to my apartment. As I open it, I just love the refurbished stairs and walls. Abi and her builder certainly did a good job – apparently with some help from Abi’s husband and friends. I’m surprised Mr Jennings worked from here as it was. I’m sure an untidy entrance area isn’t conducive to instilling confidence in clients.
The middle-aged man who is delivering my sign insists on taking it up to the office. It seems that men, both old and young, want to go out of their way to help me. It can’t be because of my looks, so perhaps I come over as a helpless female. Well, whatever the reason, I’m glad I have that effect.
The man unwraps the sign and I stand back to look at it. It’s amazing. When I’d called at the shop, the woman in the office had brought up a few possibilities on the computer, and this was the design and colour scheme I’d chosen. But to see it actually full-size, here in my office, is wonderful.
“Where’s it going?” the man asks.
“In the window,” I say. “My friends are going to fix it up there for me, so you can just leave it against the wall for now. You have the small one for the front door?”
I want to show the small one to Abi. Hopefully she or one of her friends will be able to screw it for me onto the street door. Memo to self: get some tools, you never know when they’ll come in handy.
Just as the man drives off, another van arrives. It’s like a pitstop. This van has the name of my locksmith on it. People in this small town are certainly reliable, I’ll say that for them. I’m gasping for another fix of coffee after what has already been a busy morning, but I have to stay out of Button Up for the moment. I can leave the locksmith to get on with things, but first I need to check that he’s brought the two high security locks I chose when he called to give the quote. And, of course, the strong steel bar to go inside the door at the top of the stairs.
There are two locks. A multi-lever deadlock with three hardened circular bolts
to resist saws and angle grinders, and an anti-snap, anti-pick, anti-drill and anti-bump lock, together with a double cylinder latch that locks itself automatically on both sides when the door closes ‒ according to the technical specification he showed me. The door already has a closing spring on it, and I tell him I want to be sure it really will latch by itself.
All seems well with the locks he’s had to order specially for this job, and I explain that the high security alarm – and I’m emphasising the high security part – is not set, and under no circumstances is he to let anyone upstairs. If anyone comes looking for me, I’m in Button Up.
As I turn to leave, a sudden thought occurs to me. I remember being advised about security on my course. If you lock yourself accidentally out of your house, how would you get in? And the answer is –the way the housebreaker would choose! “So if you had to get in here without keys,” I ask him, “how would you do it?”
I get the feeling the man just wants me to leave him alone so he can get on with the job. He shrugs. “Dynamite?”
I nod. “Yeah, that would do it.”
As I enter Button Up, I can see that the small table at the far end is unoccupied. There already seems to be something special about sitting there. Of course, it means I can keep an eye on the whole coffee shop, but I can’t really see the importance of that. I’m not here to spy on the customers!
Oh, I can see a Reserved sign on the table. That’s a shame. Someone catches me by the arm and before I can steady myself, I’m being steered towards the table. It’s Abi.
“I always reserve it for Danny,” she explains. “He sits here to have his lunch, but you’re welcome to sit here now.” She motions to me to sit down, but leaves the Reserved sign there. So at least I won’t be getting any unwelcome customers wanting to share the table. I really need to sit quietly and think.
Is Tom at the print shop’s grandmother really harming Katie? Perhaps the little girl just keeps bumping into things. Anyway, if the video from the spy clock shows the grandmother giving the most loving attention to the little girl, while Katie keeps crashing into the furniture, at least the reason for the bruises will be obvious, and the parents can relax. There might be a medical problem, and not one of abuse.
As soon as I can get upstairs, I need to make sure the spy clock is ready to go. I know people put them in care homes to keep an eye on a vulnerable relative, and that presents a difficulty. With the built-in battery, although the clock keeps running, the recording will only last for a few hours.
The clock ideally needs connecting to the mains electricity, but in a care home every item with a plug needs to be safety tested. I roll my eyes. The electrician is, of course, almost certain to wonder why a simple electric wall clock needs mains electricity. Unless he or she can be tipped off in advance and is sympathetic to the reason for the clock being there in the first place, there can be problems.
I don’t need to give my order. Without me saying a word, Abi brings me my cappuccino. I’m a devotee of the frothy top as well as the flavour. The apple Danish is a surprise, but Abi smiles and puts a finger to her lips. “A little treat on the house.”
I very nearly say, “A moment on the lips and a lifetime on the hips,” but that might not be a tactful thing to say to Abi who has been so kind to me!
From the word go, I’ve insisted on paying for my own coffee. I like to think of the staff as friends, and indeed they are, but I want to keep the relationship on a professional footing. I’m a tenant, not a guest.
I’m just giving Abi the number of my burner phone and explaining the reason for having it, when I jump. Someone is just inside the coffee shop, calling my name. It’s a man. It’s not the locksmith. I can see his van outside, and I’m sure he’ll call to see me to check the locks before he leaves. The man is standing with the light behind him, but I recognise him immediately. I jump to my feet as he comes across to the table.
“Detective Inspector Dickinson,” I say. “Have you come with any special news?” Oh, I hope he has. Catching the murderers won’t bring Sam back to life, but I’ll feel much safer when they’re all locked away.
He points to the empty chair. “May I?”
“Of course. Would you like a coffee? Are you on your own?” I’m half expecting to see Courtney Jacobs. I’m assuming the detective inspector is here on duty and hasn’t just come for the coffee and my company.
“It’s only a courtesy call,” he explains. “As Sam’s team leader, I feel a certain responsibility for you.”
There’s a long pause, and then he says, “I wish you hadn’t gone to the press. It puts us in an embarrassing light when people think an amateur detective is trying to solve the case.”
“A professional private investigator,” I say, “but the woman got it all wrong. I assured her that if I have any evidence, I’ll turn it straight over to the police. She didn’t bother to quote where I told her my job wouldn’t be fighting crime. I’m sorry if anyone took it the wrong way.”
I think the detective inspector believes me, but he looks concerned. “I want you to promise me again, Abi, that under no circumstances will you investigate your husband’s murder. Promise? Seriously promise this time? I like you, Janika, and I don’t want you getting hurt.” And he reaches across and touches my hand. I withdraw it slowly, so as not to appear rude. I wish he hadn’t done that.
He merely shrugs and points to the ceiling. Presumably he’s indicating my apartment. “How are you settling in, Janika? Plenty of work?”
Spying on an elderly relative for the MacDonalds doesn’t exactly sound glamorous, so I merely tell him it’s early days, but there is already some definite interest.
Once again he points to the ceiling. “Courtney has told me about your office. Is it all right if I have a look?”
I’m just about to say that’s fine, when I suddenly wonder exactly what the man’s motives are. Is he hitting on me? Courtney said his wife and kids have recently left him. Is he lonely enough to come all the way here from Brevelstone to try and pick me up? Perhaps talking about the newspaper report was a convenient cover story. This isn’t looking good.
I put on a pretence of a smile. The man is probably nearly twenty years older than me. His lack of hair isn’t a problem. Sam might have gone completely bald by that age, if he’d lived. But the straggly moustache would have to go. Not that I’m even thinking about any sort of relationship with DI Dickinson. My mind is behaving most oddly.
“Of course you can have a look round,” I say. “But have a coffee first. And the restroom is that way.” I’m certainly not having him poking around in my living quarters. Just the office.
Before he can raise a finger for service, because he’s being watched with great interest by Abi, Melanie and Pete, I jump to my feet and tell him I’ll get the coffee for him.
He wants a large latte, and as I walk across to the service counter I give the order loudly. Then when I'm really close, I whisper to Abi, “He wants to look round upstairs. Please, please come with me.”
Abi starts to laugh. “Don’t you trust him? You can always trust a policeman. That’s what my mother told me.”
“Something doesn’t feel right,” I say with a frown, hoping the Happy Button will take me seriously.
“What excuse shall I give?”
I give a brief smile. “I know you’ll think of something. Just don’t let me down.”
Chapter 13
I turn to go back to the table, and it’s empty. Now where’s the man gone? Two minutes later I hear the flush going in the unisex toilet followed by the noise of the hand dryer. Then Detective Inspector Dickinson appears. I hope he didn’t overhear what I was saying to Abi when he must have gone past us just now.
The locksmith calls from the doorway to say he needs me. I tell DI Dickinson that his coffee is on the way, and I’ll be back. I think his name is Roger, but I’m not sure. I really need to find out, although if he really is keen on me, maybe it’s best to keep things on a formal footing.
> The locksmith says he’s finished, and he hands me three sets of keys. I’m not going to let him go until I’m satisfied with his workmanship. I try out each of the locks in turn, several times from the outside, and then from the inside. He seems to have done the perfect job.
“These are the most secure locks I can get my hands on for this design of wooden door,” the locksmith says. “They are drill proof and bumper proof, but if someone is determined enough they’ll cut their way in with drills and grinders. But if you’re here at the time, you’ll have plenty of warning to phone the police and get out through the back window.” He shrugs. “And if they try in the middle of the day, when you’re out, some suspicious neighbour is going to phone the police anyway. Just remember, no the door is proof against a determined professional.”
That sounds fine to me, and one of the things we learnt on our course is that even the most secure vault in the world can be broken into given enough time. The main thing is to delay the intruder long enough to get help or escape. Ideally both.
The locksmith hasn’t finished yet with his cheerful advice. “Don’t forget, the latch you ordered locks itself automatically from both sides when the door closes. You’ll need your key to get out, or you could be burnt to death if the place is on fire. This double cylinder latch is really intended for separate areas connected by a single door that only authorised people with a key can come backwards and forwards through. Remember, as soon as the door closes, it locks itself.”
That all seems straightforward enough, but I feel an explanation is called for. “With the double cylinder latch bolt I can’t leave here without my keys and lock myself out. And I always want come down the stairs to welcome a client in at the door, and see them out the same way, so I’ll always have the key with me. So it’s just the metal bar on the inside of the door at the top of the staircase,” I say.
“As long as you know where your keys are if you have to get out in a hurry,” the locksmith says. “I’m serious.”
