Читать книгу The Real Lady Detective Agency: A True Story - Rebecca Jane - Страница 10

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.

‘What are you doing now?’ Steph asks with concern as I pull into the hard shoulder to overtake the traffic on the outside. Yet another illegal move but if I hadn’t done it, we’d have lost him because somehow he’s managed to get as far as thirteen cars in front. There’s a gap in the perfect spot, which I zip into just before he can see us.

‘Rebecca, you don’t pay me death money!’

‘Sorry. No more illegal moves,’ I promise with my fingers crossed.

Thankfully, about a mile further down the road the subject pulls into a building site. We slump back in our seats and breathe a sigh of relief. Honestly, I feel as if I’ve been holding my breath since he emerged from that front door.

‘I hate traffic,’ I say, reaching for the video camera. Steph is grabbing the stills camera, ready to snap away. The subject goes into one of those horrible Portakabins – made of some kind of metal, and not only plain ugly but also depressing. He emerges wearing a hard hat and a fluorescent jacket.

‘What a spoon,’ I remark. ‘Not working, my foot!’

Steph shakes her head in disapproval.

Our subject proceeds to direct men on the building site, waving his arms to show them where to go and what to do, and we video him for the next hour from behind a wall, and through some side railings.

‘Think that’s what we call a result,’ Steph says.

‘Correct. Let’s go get something to eat. And have a pee!’

We take off and have lunch. Later on, when Steph has safely been returned to her bed, I review the footage. What we have is the car-camera, which is set up on the front dashboard of the car, showing him leaving for work from his girlfriend’s house. I run a search and find she rents it. Also, the film footage and photos of him on the building site show that he’s clearly in a position of authority. I throw together my report, based on all the timings and factual evidence, and send it off to Sarah.

‘You are absolutely wonderful,’ she telephones to tell me, sounding ecstatically happy.

‘Aw, you’re welcome.’ I leave out all the parts about the red lights, hard shoulder and general law-breaking.

‘I’m sending it off to the Child Support Agency straight away. I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done. I knew this is where he was, and what he was up to, but now I actually have the evidence.’

I feel really happy for her and just hope she gets some justice.

Two months go by and to my surprise I see ‘Sarah CSA Case’ flash on my phone.

‘Hi, Rebecca, it’s Sarah.’

She must have an update for me.

‘I sent off all the evidence to the CSA, and they interviewed my former husband again. He came up with a cock-and-bull story that this was a one-off, and that he isn’t in full-time work. He says he got offered a job managing a site for a week, and took it, but now he’s unemployed again.’

‘Oh dear,’ I tell her. ‘This is not good.’

‘I know. He’s so slippery! I’m furious. I know what he’s doing, but it’s just proving it!’

‘It’s such a shame that when we get proof he can so easily lie his way out of it.’ I feel genuinely disheartened for her.

‘There’s only one thing for it. I know it’s going to cost a lot, but it needs to be done because I’m not letting him get away with this. Can you do exactly what you’ve already done, but once a week for the next twelve weeks?’

Crikey! ‘Of course we can,’ I tell her. Thankfully, because he doesn’t live too far away, we can have it done in less than three hours each time. The bill’s not going to be thousands, but it’s still going to be significant.

‘Great. Thank you. Send me an invoice and I’ll get it sorted for you. Mercifully, my dad’s offered to pay!’

That makes me feel a little better, at least. I’d offer to work for her for free, but that’s my heart taking over my head again. Mustn’t let my personal feelings about dads who don’t pay maintenance get in the way of my professionalism! Time to get a grip.

Over the course of the next twelve weeks, we do exactly as Sarah asks. Her ex-husband goes to work from his girlfriend’s house every single time. Different building sites, but the same job. We also manage to track down his website, on which he touts his services as an ‘independent project manager’. That will do nicely. I print off the pages and send them to Sarah. You can’t simply send a web link to the Child Support Agency and ask them to look at it – it’s against their rules – so we have to print off each page and send them. The client will get a full package from us that they can submit directly to the CSA – all part of the service!

After the twelve weeks are up, Steph and I catch up over skinny lattes.

‘I’m still worried they’re going to turn round to Sarah and say it’s not enough,’ she frets.

‘I know what you mean: he could invent an explanation for everything. What else can we do, though?’ I sit back, large white mug in hand, staring into the foamy milk for inspiration. Thankfully, it doesn’t take long before it dawns on me. ‘We sting him!’

‘With a bee?’ Steph is confused.

‘No, silly! We set up a honey trap. But instead of trying to seduce him and seeing if he responds, we lure him to work for us. We pay for his services. He says on his website he’s a project manager – so let’s find something for him to project manage!’

‘Ooooh!’ Finally, pennies are dropping all over the place. ‘I get it! Nice thinking, brains!’

Smugly, I sit back in my chair and dream up a way in which we can perform this little exercise.

‘Yes, this will do perfectly,’ says Steph, whom I’m currently hoisting up so that she can peer over a six-foot-high brick wall.

‘Can you see the way in, though?’ I ask, getting impatient as her heel digs into my thigh.

‘Possibly. Get me down,’ she says, brushing the dust from her all-black ensemble. ‘Come around this way.’ And she walks – no, teeters – in her heels, towards some trees.

We squeeze through a gap between the trees and the wall. Following the path round leads us to an opening at the opposite side, revealing a plot of land with the foundations of a house poking out. It’s a Sunday morning, the time of day when the residents of God’s Waiting Room will be out in force, wearing their fanciest hats to swan around the village church. All in the name of religion, of course.

‘Let me handle this one,’ Steph says, digging out her phone from her Louis Vuitton handbag. She looks pleased with herself, and is clearly loving this case, as she dials the number our subject gave on his website. ‘Hello, my name is Jennifer Hall. I develop properties. I’m sorry for ringing on a Sunday but we’ve had a minor emergency. The project manager on one of our properties handed in his notice this morning and is leaving us in the lurch. We need someone to manage our site a.s.a.p, and I found your details on the Internet.’

She’s made a good start, but it’s a little risky. What if he is fully booked for the next few weeks? Steph clearly didn’t think of that possibility, but I’m keeping my fingers crossed.

‘Oh really? OK, that should be fine with me. How would it work?’

I rub my hands together to ward off some of the chill in the air. It’s sunny but the summer warmth has gone. I hop from one stiletto to the other, realising we are highly inappropriately dressed for the occasion. As always.

‘Sorry, I’m going away tomorrow, but we really need someone to start next week. Is there by any miracle a possibility you can come now?’

I smile a big cheesy grin, still hopping, giving her a thumbs-up!

‘Oh, thank you, that would be amazing. Don’t worry. If you take the job, you can bill us for Sunday hours,’ Steph tells him, joining in my hopping.

The conversation ends. ‘He’s on his way.’

Exceptionally chuffed with ourselves, we dance through the mud and puddles back to the car.

Some forty-five minutes later and we’re in position. We drive round to the site and set up the video camera in the car window. I’ll take some snaps from my post in the car.

‘You ready?’ I ask her.

‘Rock and roll ready.’

‘Good job. Looks like he’s here.’

His 4x4 drives around the corner. Steph opens the car door, and bounces out with her usual cheery attitude.

‘Hellooooo! Thanks sooo much for coming. I’m sorry for dragging you out today.’ She gives him her sparkliest smile. Sat in the car, I hardly hear anything else that’s going on. There’s lots of nodding and walking around the foundations, but finally they part with a handshake. Somehow she has convinced him she knows about construction!

Steph gets back into the car. ‘Drive, quick, round there,’ she says, pointing just past the trees. I pull up in a spot where we can still watch him but he won’t be able to see us.

‘What did he say?’ I ask her.

‘He said that he’s contracted to another job for the next nine months, something he’s been working on for over a year. He can’t leave his current job, but he has other men on his books who he can employ and manage for us. It will cost around £1,000 per week, because they’re specialists or something.’

Steph has a triumphant grin on her face and I’m not only relieved but also exceptionally happy.

‘But why’s he still there, though?’ Steph has a good point. What’s he doing now?

‘I’m not sure,’ I say, shuffling into a position where I can see better. He walks around the site a bit more, poking his nose into an outhouse. Very strange.

‘Oh my God!!!!’ We both sit there, stunned. ‘Is he doing what I think he’s doing?’

‘I think so,’ Steph says, staring in amazement. ‘He’s stealing the boiler!’

The dirty-dog of a project manager/child-maintenance dodger/fraudster/outright thief loads the boiler into his 4x4, along with some copper piping, before finally driving off!

The video is pretty good, and Steph writes up a full witness statement about their conversation.

I speak with Sarah once again to tell her what’s happened, then send her our full report. The CSA orders her ex to pay maintenance, but still it’s not the end of that slippery guy trying as many ways as he possibly can not to pay for his child. He’s the type that will always find a way to get out of it. You’d think Sarah would be angry, very angry, but actually she is just sad and disappointed. I’m sure that over time the sadness will pass and the anger will return. Maybe we’ll be called back to film him again when that happens. He’d better watch his step …