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