© 2023 Richard Taylor
My apprenticeship lasted a couple of years before the emotions calmed and the operations started to feel like a job. As soon as you start wondering how much of the material spoils you can keep and call "expenses" you know that pure principle isn't driving you any more.
Simultaneously I reached the point where my skills were worth paying for and I was also willing to be paid. Even then I never actively sought work. It kind of fell into my lap by chance.
One day, when I was visiting my mother, a friend of mine from school happened to be passing. I said hello and we got talking. Which was unusual in itself, since when we were at school I always got the impression that she thought herself too good for me. In fact, when I say "friend from school" it would be more accurate to say "girl I was at school with who didn't totally hate me".
Anyway, I could tell that she was both distracted and agitated, so I asked her what was on her mind. She hesitated, avoiding eye contact. Then just came out with it. She thought her husband was playing around.
I was quite taken aback. Here was someone I hadn't seen for years, who I only related to as a child, laying her marital issues on me, in the street. How strange. Except it wasn't strange at all. Because it turned out she had been talking to my mother.
Now I obviously never told my mother what I was doing for those years. But I had to tell her something. Obviously she was going to worry about me, after everything I had been through. So I told her I was helping people. Nothing specific. Nothing she could check up on. Just a general, and probably quite flattering, picture of how I would like to be viewed. I mean, if you can't get your mother to believe you are doing the right thing, then no-one will.
So the grown up Helen was asking for my help. She must have been desperate. Or, as I discovered, had no idea who to go to for help in such matters. I mean, there's a lot of chatter on the good old internet, but who to go to for action? Private detectives are just fictional, right?
We went to a nearby pub to talk. It was a Tuesday afternoon. Very quiet. And I must admit I was quite excited to be consulted. She really did want me to help with a real problem. It wasn't an abstract wrong that I had sought out. It was her problem in her real life.
She described her life with Simon. How it started so well, and then skipping ahead pretty rapidly to when it seemed to start going wrong. She spoke nervously. Stopping suddenly every time someone came into the pub, or whenever a member of staff came too close, cleaning the tables that were already clean.
I remembered Simon. He was in the year above us and had gone out with the sister of one of my best friends for a while. There were rumours that he got her pregnant and then dumped her. My friend said it wasn't true. But after that Simon kept well away from us. My friend was a big kid, and he did martial arts.
Overwhelmingly I felt sorry for Helen. But I wasn't going to rush into acting against people who knew me. So I was very careful to ask how she thought I might be able to help, without giving any hints as to the options. And it was a relief to hear that she just wanted to know the truth. Was her Simon playing around or not? He kept denying it. She probably still loved him. But wasn't sure. She needed to know.
They had a second house that they normally rented out, but it was between tenants. Helen suspected that Simon might have been going there. I agreed to take a look and see what I could find out. She gave me the address and a key. Which was a novelty.
A few months earlier I had been into a house which had several nicely hidden cameras. Unfortunately for the owner the computer receiving the feeds was not well hidden, or secured. So it was easy to look at the pictures then go into the rooms and find the cameras. I'd kept the cameras and wiped the computer, then set it downloading several current hit movies from the kinds of sites that are likely to get you a piracy warning from your ISP.
There were 2 bedrooms in Helen's / Simon's rental house, so I put a camera in each and one in the living room for luck. A week later I went back and wasn't surprised to find Helen's worries confirmed. I was surprised that there seemed to be 2 different women. One of which was a, how can I put this, professional. Unless he was giving her cash for a cab home. And she lived in Manchester.
The hardest part of the job was showing Helen the evidence. I didn't expect her to be happy. Relieved maybe? But she was just shocked and upset. As if she really wanted it to not be true, but knew all along it was, and now felt foolish as well as cheated.
I didn't ask for any money. But a week or so later Helen contacted me to ask what she owed me. Not being prepared for the question I jokingly said my rate was 3000 pounds a week, but that I wouldn't dream of accepting anything from her. We talked for a while about what she planned to do next. She seemed happier. Confident.
About 6 weeks later Helen called me again. She had a friend, Mrs Davis, who wanted to hire me. The 3000 per week was fine. And there would be a bonus.
By any measure, Mrs Davis was a remarkable woman. Very careful. No phone calls or electronic communications. Nothing whatsoever to tie her to me. All of which was a great inspiration. And a help. At least one of us knew what we were doing.
We met in a charity shop on Chislehurst High Street. There were no other customers and appeared to be no staff either. She was very attractive, and looked much younger than I had expected. Not knowing what to say, I said nothing and just let her talk. Which was a good move, since almost everything I had assumed about the situation was wrong.
Firstly, it wasn't a husband problem. Not directly anyway. Because her husband had died a year ago. She thought he might have been murdered.
Secondly, she was older than she looked. Because the chief suspect was her 22 year old son. Although it could also have been one or both of her twin 18 year old sons. But almost certainly not her 16 year old daughter. Unless it was.
I wanted to ask why she was telling me this and not the police. But I didn't, because I thought it would make me sound like an idiot. Instead I continued to listen to her story and nodded pensively whenever it felt appropriate.
Her voice had a surprisingly deep and mellow timbre that I found very appealing. I could have listened to her all day. So it was disappointing when she started to wrap up. My remit was open. I was to find out what I could about her husband's death. She gave me a key to a locker at Victoria Station which had documents that would help and the first 3000 pounds.
As she left she warned me to be careful. From what she had told me I think she was frightened of all her children, but she didn't show it. To all the world she was totally self-assured and untouchable.
On my way home I felt totally exhilarated. It was like being a kid at a disco and the most beautiful girl there just coming up and asking me to dance. Me. Picking me. Mrs Davis was a very special woman. And she had picked me.
The euphoria didn't last long though. The documents in the locker were nothing more than newspaper cuttings. And the 3000 pounds was in £50 notes, which were not very good forgeries.
It got worse. There had been a Mr Davis and he had died a year ago. But he died along with 8 other people in a car pile up on the motorway. Police had established that the accident was caused by vehicles travelling too fast in poor weather conditions. Hard to kill someone by making them drive their car fast in the rain.
And then there were the children. According to one of the clippings Mr Davis left behind a wife and two children, not four. So I checked. Mrs Davis had a son aged 6 and a daughter who had just turned 4. Mrs Davis herself was 29 years old.
At first I wanted to meet her again and confront her about the fantasy she had concocted. But the more I thought about it, the more I sympathised. Her world had collapsed. Maybe she was just trying to keep Mr Davis alive by building a story around him. I wasn't sure what to do.
My instructions were quite clear. When I had significant information I was to put up a postcard on the noticeboard in Bromley Library. There was a code which would tell her the time and which of a selection of places to meet at. So "Blue Dragon Kung Fu classes Tuesdays 7pm Lewisham Community Centre" meant next Wednesday at 2pm in the charity shop where we first met.
I wondered which books she had been reading. Or was it movies. Or TV.
A week went by. I couldn't help thinking about her. Was she going to the library every day to check the noticeboard? Maybe I should stake it out and see. But I didn't want to risk her seeing me. It was a puzzle.
In the end I just went to the library and posted a card for a meeting the following Thursday. And then I went along with the vaguest of plans. Hoping that she wouldn't actually show up. That would have been an easy conclusion.
But she did show up. In a lovely dark blue dress. At once I was captivated by her again. I told her I had made some progress. I said that she was probably right about her eldest son. There had been a falling out between Damian and his father over some business deal.
Mrs Davis didn't even bat an eyelid at the mention of the made up name. Instead she asked me some questions. Which I answered with more fiction. Then I asked her if she knew anything about her husband's businesses. She said she didn't. I said I would keep digging. It might take a while.
We met 3 more times. Roughly once a month. Each time she was equally businesslike and totally unfazed by my stories. Rather, she was utterly engaged with the whole charade. I would always bring her some "documents" as proof that the case was progressing. On the last occasion she asked if I thought we had enough for a conviction.
This seemed like a signal. Yes, I said. We have enough.
As she handed me another locker key, I could see a tear welling in her eye. Then she turned and left. Without another word.
I went straight to the station and opened the locker. I half expected it to be empty, or to have another fake 3 grand. But instead I found a card with flowers on the front. Inside it just said "Thank You". There was also an envelope, this time with £20 notes in. And they were real.