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‘Of course, thank you.’ And she hangs up. I can breathe a sigh of relief.
My eyes close again and I’m being transported once more. I’m on an aeroplane, on my way to New York. A boy from school is sat next to me, and I wonder if that’s a sign?
The phone … ringing … Mission Impossible … again … and it dawns on me. Mission impossible. I’ve jinxed myself. This is mission impossible.
‘It’s negative,’ Jane tells me, and I’m not surprised.
‘Ah,’ I say. Very productive.
‘I know. But how accurate are these things? I was so sure.’
Oh dear no, please no, don’t let me have to go into an hour-long conversation about how accurate the tests are. There’s no pleasing the woman; she won’t believe me.
‘Very accurate. I spoke with my equipment supplier yesterday,’ I tell her, dodging the question neatly.
‘Oh really, what did he suggest?’
‘He said that the best thing would be an audio device, and I’m inclined to agree. You can’t get into Tom’s office, and neither can we, but if you place this item somewhere you’ll be able to hear everything that goes on in the vicinity. Or else you can leave it entirely up to us and we’ll monitor it for you and document the findings.’
‘That sounds like a good idea.’ After that she was on the phone for at least an hour wanting to know how the audio device works, how long it works for, how much it will cost. Followed by what a miserable life she has because of him, and all the rest of the things we’ve gone through a thousand times since I took on her case. Suddenly it dawns on me why solicitors charge for phone calls.
The same constantly needy Jane calls me goodness knows how many times over the next three days, which is how long it takes for her audio equipment to get to me. Chai, thankfully, is amazing at shipping quickly. Goodness knows how I’d have coped with this woman if he wasn’t.
At this stage I can honestly say I think she’s crazy and that her husband isn’t up to anything. The things she’s worrying over are, for want of a better word, pathetic. Still, as our new motto goes, everyone needs help, regardless of finances or circumstances. If this is helping her, who am I to argue? Without any doubt, where I’ve gone very wrong is in letting her use me as a counsellor. That’s something I’m not. She’s been telling me so many horrible things, I honestly believe she is suffering some form of mental torture from her husband. I’ve told her speak to a professional and get help but she doesn’t seem to take it in. Instead she rings me at the stupidest hours of the day and night and tells me everything. Very sad really. As much as she cheeses me off, I do have a soft spot for her.
We’ve had lots of conversations over the last couple of days. I made it very clear to her that if she was going to use the device she needed to tell him, otherwise, as I advised her, it would be illegal. Initially Jane was going to put the device in his car, but then she changed her mind. Then she decided on the garage, because he takes all his phone calls in there, but then she changed her mind. Next, she was going to put it in the lounge and go away for a few days, but then she changed her mind. Finally, we settled on a place. Jane was going to take the matchbox-size device and sew it into his laptop bag. That way it would be with him in the car, and in his workplace. No way would he be able to find it.
Two days later, at 8am in the morning, I start to listen in, typing up notes on what I hear.
8am – ‘And you are gold – GOLD – Always believe in your soooooouuuullllll … You got the power to know!’ Nope, singing. Not up to anything.
9am – all quiet. He was in a morning briefing.
10am – still in the briefing.
11am – tap tap tapping away. He’s typing.
12pm – chatting to a co-worker (male) about what sandwich to have for lunch. Yawn.
1pm – chatting to another co-worker about a PowerPoint presentation for tomorrow morning.
2pm – tap tap tapping away again.
3pm – OH … MY … GOD! Er, what I’m listening to is very rude! Don’t want to type it, so I switch to record. Dirty sex noises are all I can hear. Lots of ‘oh my’s, ‘wow, do that some more’ and the list goes on … and then I hear ‘Come on, Muriel, now, now …’ Well, that confirms who it is. I’m sat at my desk, quite close to throwing up. My hand is over my mouth, and my head is bowed. I’m literally stunned to silence. The one problem about these audio bugs is that I’ve got no visuals, so I have no idea where on earth they are! They could be in his office, in a hotel room or even in a broom cupboard. All I know is that his wife will not be happy!
I have to carry on listening though. I need to hear the whole thing, and hopefully get some confirmation this is still him. Then it happens …
‘Please can we not leave it so long next time, Tom? I really miss you when I can’t see you,’ says the female voice.
‘I know. It’s just Jane’s been really suspicious lately. I need her to chill out for a bit. She seems to be getting better just the last few days.’
Thank you, Tom. Everything is confirmed and I’ve got it recorded. They continue their conversation, but not for long. It ends with Muriel telling Tom he should leave his annoying, pathetic wife, to which he gives a non-committal grunt.
I try to detach myself from the situation and not think about what’s happened. I pick up the phone and dial Jane’s number. I feel horrible. He really is everything she’s said. He is a dreadful man, who’s mentally torturing her. He’s having an affair with a girl young enough to be his daughter, and it seems he truly does hate his wife. Jane shouldn’t have to live with this awful reality.
I break the news to her, and even though I feel sick to the stomach and deeply distressed about it, Jane takes it all very well. She’s been totally crazy the whole time – but now she is calm? It’s very bizarre, but she seems at peace by the time our conversation ends. You can literally hear the sound of relief in her tone as she says, ‘It’s not just me then?’
A little bit of my heart breaks, and I struggle to swallow the lump in my throat.
‘No, Jane, it’s not you. You were right.’
Jane thanks me, and as we end our conversation, I tell her I’ll call her in a few days to see how she’s doing.
I sit in the same place I did just a few days ago, looking out at God’s Waiting Room, watching the world go by. I had been utterly convinced Jane was a total fruitcake. She’d driven me to the brink of distraction and I’m sure she was doing the same to her husband. I was 100 per cent, totally, massively convinced beyond any doubt that her suspicions were all in her head. What does that say? Does it mean that her husband is a typical nasty horrible man, a serial cheater and the type of person no one should have anything to do with? Or is the result, and my problem with this case, based on guilt?
I feel dreadful for not believing Jane. My gut instinct was wrong. This was the classic woman I’d set out to help, and every step of the way I’d doubted her. Had it ever shown in my voice? Did she know I believed she was crazy? I put my hand on my heart and hoped she hadn’t.
It makes me even more determined to stay open-minded and non-judgemental when our next job comes along. And I’m hoping that will be soon. Because despite all the long hours on the phone and the many irritations, I feel I am cut out for this role. Just a bit more practice and I hope I’ll even get good at it. After all, I have the credentials from my life experience. I know what it feels like – on both sides of the fence.
THE LADIES VERSUS THE CSA (#ue57176e2-4fff-50a3-ac8a-371a83c35aa1)
I’ve got strong moral values – but there are times when they have to go out of the window. I’ve always been the type of person to hold a firm opinion – but on the other hand, I’ll do what it takes to get a job done. If you ask me how ruthless I am, my automatic reply would be: ‘I’m lethal. I will literally do anything to get to where I want to be.’
Being a Lady Detective, even for the short time I’ve been doing it, has taught me a lot about myself that I never suspected. One: I want everything my own way. Two: I’m a serious control freak, and the hardest thing for me is delegating my precious clients to other people. Three: my moral boundaries are still being developed. I thought I knew who I was and what I believed in, but almost every day I have to re-evaluate. Four: I am seriously fascinated by people; I have a burning need to understand the world and why people do what they do. Five: I never realised how judgemental I was! Six: I care too much (hmm, most of the time, anyway!). Seven: I’m really not very ‘lethal’ at all – in fact, it’s highly possible I’m a total pussycat pushover … I’m still working this point out. Eight: I get infuriated with the Child Support Agency …
It’s 11am and God’s Waiting Room is as lively as ever. Mrs Jones is weeding her garden. Mr Thomson across the road is mowing his lawn, and Albert is talking to his cat. Quite a remarkable sight, three people outside all at once! I’m in a thoughtful mood. How can I expand the work we’re doing? What other avenues can we pursue? So far we’ve only had business from women who want us to follow their menfolk and find proof of infidelities, and mostly we’ve succeeded. It seems women’s instincts about this are often spot-on. Maybe they don’t ring us until they are pretty certain, but all this sordid stuff could quite possibly mash my brain after a while. We need to use our services for good purposes, but I’m lost as to what exactly. The percolator has finished making my morning coffee, and tapping my pen on the notepad isn’t getting me very far. I stand up in a huff, mainly with myself. Like a flashing beacon, the phone sounds. I’ve now moved on to the James Bond theme tune, mainly because I couldn’t find Cagney and Lacey.
‘Good morning, the Agency,’ I say, in my business tone.
‘Hello. I have a problem I need some help with.’
This is the point at which I’m listening hard. It could be a perfectly normal person with a very normal problem or we could be taking a step on the crazy train, and dealing with the utterly bizarre. We get both in equal measure, I’ve found. What is today bringing me?
‘Of course, and we’re the right place for that,’ I tell the lady on the end of the phone. My non-judgemental (cough, cough) summing-up, based on her voice alone? I reckon she’s in her mid-forties with blonde highlighted hair.
‘Excellent. I need to hire a private investigator to catch out my ex-husband.’
‘Really? OK, how’s about you give me some background information and I’ll tell you if I can help.’
‘Of course. My name’s Sarah. I left my husband three years ago and we’re now divorced. We have a child – she’s now six – and he’s never paid child support. I don’t want millions from him, I just want something. I don’t understand why he thinks that my paying for everything is acceptable when we created her together. Not only that, I’m a single mother and I do actually need help. I don’t have a money tree in the garden or anything.’
‘I understand. It certainly doesn’t seem very fair. Have you got the CSA involved?’ I ask, wondering if she has a genuine case.
‘Yes. I first asked them to look into it two years ago, and they put him through assessment. He never replied to any of their letters, so they based the amount of money I was owed on some chart or scheme or something.’
‘I’ve heard about that. It’s a survey they look at if they can’t get information from the non-resident parent, or can’t find a tax return. The survey tells them what the person is expected to earn, based on their job title. The judgment is based on this.’
‘Exactly. It said I was owed £50 per week, which was fine by me. Only problem was that when they started to pester him for money, he suddenly replied. He said he wasn’t working, and that he lives with his parents.’
‘Is that true?’
‘No. He lives with his new girlfriend, and I know he works. He has his own business.’
Over the years I’ve heard a lot about people struggling to get maintenance payments from non-resident parents. Maybe this is an interesting new avenue for The Lady Detective Agency. Just what I was looking for!
‘Sounds familiar. What do you know about his work, and what evidence do you have?’
‘I don’t have any evidence. That’s my problem, because the CSA needs it. I know he’s a builder and has two builders who work for him. The whole operation is cash-based, and the CSA tell me they can’t do anything about that. They’ve read his bank statements and they show there’s nothing going through, but that’s because he puts it all in his girlfriend’s accounts. I know where he lives, though.’
‘Excellent,’ I tell her, relieved we have a lead. ‘It sounds simple. First things first. I’d advise surveillance to start off with. We’ll follow him from that address to work and compile some evidence about what he’s up to. Does he work every day?’
‘Oh yes, every day, he leaves between 7am and 9.30am, depending on where he’s working.’
‘No problem. I’ll email you a quote in the next half an hour. You have a think about it, and if you want to go ahead you just have to suggest a day and we’ll take it from there,’ I tell her, winding up the conversation.
‘Wonderful! Oh, thank you so much. I’m so relieved I’ve found someone who can help! I felt lost with it all.’
Aw, I like this lady! I thank her, get her details and hang up, moving straight on to the quote, which I compile and send through to her. I feel as if the morning has been productive now and decide to wander down to the village shop, pondering this possible new direction for the business.
As soon as I’ve returned, had some soup for lunch and read the paper, I check my emails. Sarah, the new CSA client lady, has instantly replied and even paid through PayPal! Crikey, she’s keen.
Hi Rebecca,
I’d love to go ahead with your services. Any weekday will be fine. I know it’s going to be a case of hit and miss, although I am confident he will do exactly as I’ve said. I can honestly say I’m not bitter, but I know him. He did the exact same thing with his first wife. He didn’t want to pay support for the two children he had with her, so he used to do everything in cash and put it through my account. When they got divorced, she ended up with a judgment on him for over £50,000, so now he has even more reason to hide everything he’s doing. I suppose this is karma calling, but either way, I need to do something. The whole thing seems so unfair. Anyway, I’ll leave it in your very capable hands; just let me know when you have any info.
Best of luck,
Sarah
Oh dear, this certainly seems like karma. Either way, this man is a serial child-maintenance dodger. Who on earth thinks they can have children and not support them? I am infuriated by this man. Hey ho, we’ve nothing else on for tomorrow, so I’ll book it in, and ask Steph to come along with me.
The alarm shrieks at a terrifying pitch. I’ve never been a morning person. I hit out to shut it up, but what I really want to do is throw it at a wall. My legs flop over the side of the bed, and I raise my upper half like a zombie. In fact, I probably look like a zombie too – yes, a quick check in the mirror affirms this. Wonderful. I hobble into the bathroom. I’m in my twenties but I’m moving like my grandma. No, maybe not; grandma moves better than I do.
The shower is lukewarm – any warmer and I’d fall asleep standing up! Did I mention it’s 5.30am? In my book, when the hands of the clock are anywhere before 7am, it’s classed as ‘holiday time’ – only an acceptable time of day to be awake if you’re catching a plane somewhere warm and sunny! But I suppose this is the reality of being a private detective.
I throw on the war paint, going far too heavy on the blusher – but who cares? I’m not supposed to be seen. Hair is just wrong, and it makes me feel stressed, but I need to get over that. Walk out to God’s Waiting Room and realise it’s a beautiful day. One of the first days of autumn, when you really notice the temperature changing. The leaves are just starting to turn and the sky is bright blue and clear. Ah, I do love God’s Waiting Room on days like today. Mrs Timson across the path waves at me as I’m loading up the car: 5.50am and she’s up, ready to face the day. What’s that all about? I wave back to the happy old dear. She’s lovely, really; slightly unhinged – calls me every name but my real one (Sarah, Judith, Joan …) – and is always up and awake at what I consider crazy times of day, but she’s lovely.
Time is moving on and I’m pulling up outside Steph’s house. She’s equally as prepared as I am: her hair is wet through and she hasn’t a scrap of make-up on. ‘Wrong, this time of day, wrong!’ she moans, getting in the car with a pillow and blanket in tow.
‘Morning, Steph.’
‘Hello, love,’ she says, leaning over for half a hug. ‘Where we rocking off to today?’ she asks, sticking on a pair of sunglasses like the diva she is.
‘Some dude hasn’t been paying child maintenance for his kid. Says he’s not working but he is. We’re off to get the evidence.’ I try to stifle a yawn, thinking that as an agency we should just refuse to work before 10am.
‘Rock on then, bird.’
‘Are you stealing my lines now?’
‘Yep, deal with it!’
We’ve clearly been working together too much lately.
We pull up outside the house where we’ve been told the target is living with his girlfriend. The new 4x4 he’s supposed to drive is parked outside. The estate is rather lovely. Certainly doesn’t look as if he’s struggling. The house is detached with possibly three bedrooms, and there are neatly kept gardens. A very family-orientated estate – which is ironic considering why we’re here. There’s a stirring from under the blanket. Steph pops half her head out and lifts her sunglasses only slightly, as if she’s a vampire trying to protect herself from the light.
‘Arghhhh,’ she says, like she’s actually in pain. ‘Where are we?’ She has a puzzled look on her face and I can tell she’s going to be highly useful today.
‘We’re here, and that’s his house,’ I say, pointing at the brightly painted red door.
‘So he’s well on the breadline then!’ she remarks in her usual sarcastic tone.
‘Exactly!’ I open a newspaper and sit back while Steph stares out of the window like a puppy looking for its mother. Time to relax. It’s 6.45am, which could mean he might not move for the next two and a half hours. We’re parked a short distance away, where we have a good view. At first we used to worry that we’d get busybody neighbours and general passers-by coming out to ask who we are and why we’re there, but it’s never actually happened. This is just another one of the times that prove this job isn’t as glamorous as the world might think. After all, Steph has been wakened from the dead, I look like a drag queen and we’ve both got hair that birds could nest in.
It’s 9.25am and Steph is snoring. Not even quiet piggy snores, but loud foghorn ones. I’ve read the paper three times (even the sports section), picked the varnish off all my nails (fingers and toes), cleaned the car interior with a baby wipe (or ten), played poker, Scrabble, Monopoly and virtual Jenga on my phone, rung my daughter, rung my cousin, rung my nan (I never ring her; must do more often), taken off my make-up and reapplied it (so I look like a normal person) and now I’ve got my feet on the ceiling, recreating yoga poses. I’m also utterly dying for the toilet – yet another hazard of an investigator’s job. I wonder if we should carry potties with us when we’re on surveillance work?
Just as the boredom is getting too much to bear, his front door opens. A midget of a man emerges, with a massive head of hair and so much stubble it looks like he hasn’t shaved for three weeks. He gets into his car. This is our man! I start the engine so I’m poised and ready to go. He takes off at normal speed (thank you). I wait until he gets round the first corner and ever so slightly out of sight and then … Full throttle! We’re off! I feel all my weight pushing back into my seat, and Steph wakes with a start.
‘It’s murder!’ she yells, as she jumps up in her seat and bangs her head on the roof, scaring me half to death.
‘What the hell?’ I shout.
‘I don’t know. Is this guy a murderer?’ she asks, looking lost. Our abrupt getaway has obviously interrupted a dramatic dream.
‘No, stupid! What are you talking about? We’re following that 4x4, two cars in front. Keep your eyes open.’
‘Sorry, must have nodded off. Maintenance guy, right?’ She is perched sideways on the passenger seat, half-resting on the dashboard of the car.
‘Yes, Steph. Maintenance guy. Watch him.’ Bless her, she looks like a toddler who’s just seen the bogeyman!
‘On it. He’s two cars in front.’ Suddenly it feels as though the Benny Hill theme tune should be playing in the background. It’s a good job our clients don’t see us at work or they’d think we were pretty darn incompetent.
There are traffic lights approaching. An investigator’s worst nightmare. I once read a private investigation manual that addressed the problem of speeding and traffic lights. In basic terms, it said that whatever you do, don’t speed and don’t go through traffic lights. Your driving licence is part of your golden investigator’s work tools. You need it desperately because without it you simply don’t have a business. Well, if any police officers are reading this, I’m sorry … but there are times you can’t play by the rules – and when the lights change after the guy you’re tailing has gone through is definitely one of them.
‘It’s RED!’ Steph screams. I approach with caution.
‘Keep your eyes on him, and only him,’ I tell her firmly. There are two lanes, and a car at the side of me. I look carefully, and, holding my breath – I’m even tempted to shut my eyes – I go for it! Yes, I know it’s wrong, but I do it very carefully. I promise. OK, I’ll go to church tomorrow and say sorry, but if we lose him, the whole morning has been a waste.
‘You’ll frigging kill me one day,’ Steph shrieks.
‘Let’s hope not,’ I say calmly. ‘Can you see him?’
‘Yes,’ she sighs, her relief tinged with disapproval. Next up, we face roadworks. For God’s sake! It’s just not funny. He is five cars in front, which is a recipe for disaster.
‘Can’t see him,’ Steph tells me.
Wonderful! The traffic comes to a standstill.
‘Screw this,’ I say.
