The Real Lady Detective Agency: A True Story

‘Right, and what about weekends and evenings?’

‘Most are spent with me or our son. Our son is very close to him, although he hates him too! He’s eighteen, and he tries to get out of the house when my husband is home. They’re more like friends than father and son.’

This sounds a bit contradictory but I leave it. ‘Does he walk a dog? Or have a hobby?’ I ask.

‘No, neither.’

‘Alright, so the main problem is work?’ Firming up the situation.

‘Yes. I think, because of the mud behind the driver’s seat, that he picks up this Muriel he works with and drops her off. I’ve been to the garage to have his car cleaned, so the mud is gone, and if it turns up another day, I’ll know!’

‘That’s not a bad idea,’ I tell her, thinking it’s a total waste of time and Googling ‘relationship charity helplines’ while we speak. I’m going to talk to a professional about this problem. I don’t think she’s sane, and I’ve had enough craziness to last a lifetime. ‘Would you want surveillance on him going to work? What about at work? What does he do for a living?’

‘He works for an Internet provider in their offices, but you need passes to get inside. I wouldn’t be able to get one. He once took me there, and they wouldn’t let me in.’

‘Alright, so surveying him at work isn’t possible. Jane, would you mind if I have a think about it and consider if there’s any equipment we could get you?’

‘No, that sounds like a very good idea.’

We finish the conversation and immediately I ring the charity I’ve just Googled. I explain to them that I’m an investigator with a new client, and I’m not entirely sure about her mental stability. Timing his journey to work by the minute, thinking he’s been up to no good in the space of six minutes and obsessing over some mud in the back of the car … I may have been paranoid during my time with James, but I don’t think I was ever quite that bad. The lady at the charity is very nice, with a lovely tone of voice, and she pretty much comes to the same conclusion as me. My very first client at my brand new detective agency is crazy. But what should I do?

In bed that night I feel rather uneasy. Do I bother to ring her back, or hope she just finds someone else to do her work? Or do I get a grip, realise we’re running a business and get on with it?

I can’t tell her where to go! I’d once been that person. I’m sure when I rang the investigators about James that they thought I was barking mad too – but I wasn’t. Is this lady the same? Or is it the case that she simply can’t describe her problem to me convincingly? She is living with this man and only she knows what he is really like. Maybe there are other situations and problems that she isn’t telling me and the story is all true. Or maybe she is obsessing over nothing.

Mission Impossible ringtone sounds. It’s 11pm! Who the heck could it be? I reach over to the bedside table and look at the flashing bright blue screen. Jane’s number is showing up! Oh dear …

‘Hello?’ I answer.

‘Hi Rebecca, it’s Jane.’

‘Hi, Jane.’ Trying not to sound too unimpressed that she is calling just as I am dropping off to sleep. We had advertised that we were open for business and accessible twenty-four hours a day, so this was going to be the downside. Maybe we’ll have to revisit that idea in the business plan.

‘I’m so sorry to call you this late, but I needed to tell you something,’ she begins in a rushed manner.

‘Of course, it’s no problem,’ I lie.

‘You know Muriel, that girl I was telling you about? The one people are suspicious of? Well, she’s just changed her profile picture.’

‘What do you mean by “her profile picture”?’

‘You know, on Facebook. Did I not tell you she was on Facebook?’

‘Er, no. I don’t think so.’

‘Well, she is. I don’t have her as a friend, but I can see lots of things she puts up. She’s changed her profile picture, and I’m sure she’s trying to tell me something.’

I want to scream! I really want to help Jane, but she’s making it very difficult. Is she honestly trying to tell me that some girl she doesn’t know, who works with her husband, about whom there have been a few rumours, has changed her profile picture to send her a sign? Really? How can I possibly work for this woman? I can’t take money from the mentally insane! Sorry … I’m no psychiatrist so I can’t diagnose that officially, but from what I can tell, the woman is about ten sandwiches short of a picnic!

‘I really don’t think it’s a sign. People change their profile pictures a lot. It’s very common,’ I tell her, trying my hardest not to be irritated or annoyed.

‘But I’ve never changed mine in the whole time I’ve been on Facebook,’ she says, sounding genuinely bemused by the situation.

‘What I can do is add Muriel and your husband to one of our fake Facebook profiles. We use them to monitor people, for lots of reasons. I’ll have a look around both of their pages and see what is on there. How’s about that?’ It seems the best solution to get her off the phone.

‘Oooo, that sounds like a very good idea.’ Yay! She’s happy!

‘Excellent, I’ll sort it out in the morning. Don’t worry – I won’t charge you if I find anything. We’ll just see what comes up.’

‘Lovely. Oh, thank you so much. I’ll speak to you tomorrow, yes?’

A momentary feeling of dread comes over me. Answering yes to this question guarantees we’ll have further contact and I’ll have to talk about this daft situation some more.

‘Of course, speak then.’ Damn it! I hang up the phone and write on the notepad next to the bedside table: Befriend Jane’s husband on Facebook!

I roll over, turn out the light and I’m asleep in five minutes.

I’m in my own little dream world, walking along a white beach. Paris is dancing around in the shallow water at my side, giggling as she always does. Waves are lapping the pure white sand, and a fabulous cool breeze is blowing in our faces. The sun is beating down rays on to the shore, and I’ve never felt more relaxed …

‘DUN … DUN … DER DE … DUN … DUN … DER DE … DE DER DERRR … DE DER DERRR … DE DER DERRR… DE DE …’

I sit bolt upright in bed! Mission Impossible is on again! I glance quickly at the alarm clock to see it’s 9am. I can’t have heard my wake-up call at 7.30am, and Mum and Dad have taken Paris to playschool today so the house is quiet. I’m scrabbling towards the phone, exactly the same as last night. Funnily enough it’s Jane’s number flashing up. Now I’m thinking it’s either déjà vu and I dreamt our conversation last night, or it’s happening again …

‘Rebecca, good morning!’ Jane says in a very upbeat tone.

‘Morning, Jane!’ I’m trying not to sound the most unprofessional sleepy woman that ever existed.

‘Have they accepted your requests yet?’ Jane asks, and then it dawns on me. No, it’s not déjà vu, not a dream and yes, it is happening again.

‘Sorry, Jane. I’ve not had a chance to check,’ I tell her while slowly placing a foot on the cold wooden floor, praying the bed doesn’t make creaking noises.

‘Oh. Oh, dear. Sorry, have I disturbed you?’ I wonder why she didn’t ask herself this question earlier, before picking up the phone at silly o’clock?

‘No, of course not. I’m just starting on some paperwork and you’re next on my list.’ Now I’m doing a cross between climbing out of bed and a limbo dance. My bed is far too creaky.

‘Oh lovely, so I’ll speak to you in an hour then?’

‘Not too sure what my diary is like. Have you got email so I can keep you updated that way?’ I’m praying she says yes and we can get over the silly ‘phoning me every ten minutes’ phase. That’s an exaggeration, but it’s how it feels.

‘We can’t do that. I’m not sure if my husband can check my emails or not.’

My heart sinks. ‘No problem, I’ll give you a call shortly. Someone’s just turned up, must go.’ Lying through my teeth. On the other hand if the kettle and toaster were real people needing my attention, it would be true. Either way, she’s off the phone and my morning coffee and toast ritual has commenced.

I wipe the sleep from my eyes, take the steaming coffee cup and walk towards the computer. It takes me ten minutes of staring mindlessly out of the window in front of my desk to waken up. It may not be the world’s greatest view I have before me – a generic suburban close on the outskirts of Manchester where my parents live that my brother calls ‘God’s Waiting Room’. Basically, all the residents are over the age of seventy and live in large, exceptionally well-kept houses. They have money and refuse to go into old folks’ homes. Their gardens are simply perfection and wouldn’t look out of place on an American sitcom.

BING BONG! Snap back to reality. The emails have started … Best get on with work.

I have a browse through Facebook and choose three of our fake profiles. One is a very attractive brunette lady in her mid-twenties and the pictures lifted from Google images look rather provocative. That will appeal to men. Another one is a business – I always wonder if people are more accepting of businesses because they look ‘proper’. The third is a man, again good-looking but not too good-looking. Women are scared of really good-looking men with perfect styling, so our guy looks down-to-earth. And then I wonder, since when did I become an expert in psychology?

Next I start adding people from Jane’s husband Tom’s friend list to my fake profiles, and lots more people as well to make it seem more authentic. I do the same with Muriel, the girl that Jane is suspicious of.

A couple of hours later, after catching up on the day’s events via email, text and phone calls, I check again. Lots of Tom’s friends have accepted our friend request, and so have Muriel’s. What kind of name is Muriel? After some very basic snooping through their profiles, and a few Internet data checks, basically using Google and the electoral roll, I know a little more about Tom and Muriel.

I highly doubt Tom was ever good-looking. He is overweight, by quite a bit, with a huge belly, a lot like Santa’s. His face is grey and gloomy, he has greying black hair and his smile is missing a few teeth. His nose is certainly crooked, and his eyes are almost black. He’s as far from good-looking as you can imagine. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder but surely no one ever accused him of it. Age: fifty-two.

Muriel. Well, she looks dirty! Not in an unclean way, but she looks as though she loves herself and will flaunt all she has got. Her profile picture, which Jane thought was ‘a sign’, shows her half-draped over a bed, sort of upside-down, with her fingers combing through her hair. Oh, and her ample chest accessories are on view, but not completely exposed. She’s got sandy hair, dark brown eyes and a slight tan. Either way, sad to say, she is good-looking. Dirty, but good-looking! Age: twenty-four.

So we have a good-looking twenty-four-year-old and a dreadful fifty-two-year-old, combined with a seemingly lunatic wife. There’s no way this can actually be happening, I sigh.

I click the exit button on the browser. It’s time to speak to my equipment suppliers and see what we can do in terms of other options for Jane. I can’t charge her a sheer fortune for surveillance when I’m 99 per cent sure this man isn’t having an affair with the fabulously dirty Muriel! Surely a girl like her wouldn’t take a second look at someone like him?

My equipment expert, Chai, is based in China. In the beginning I contacted lots of companies based in China, where all the best equipment comes from, but Chai seemed the best. He is truly an expert. He never gets tired of all my phone calls, asking about various bits of equipment and what would be most useful to us. He has great patience, which is what I need. I’ve always had a problem understanding accents, to my shame, so this stage of ordering products is always problematic for me. Chai understands me, but I still make the poor man repeat himself what seems like a million times. I already know the basic details of what I want for Jane’s job but I run it past Chai anyway.

First we discuss hacking Tom’s phone, which in reality is a lot less controversial than it sounds. ‘Hacking’ is basically a name for getting some software onto his phone, just like any other app you would use. We could send a link to our client, in this case Jane, who could then install it on his phone. After that we could get a copy of every text, phone call, photo, email, calendar entry and even his location from the phone. The problem with this plan is that by law the client must inform the person whose phone they’re hacking before they install it and get permission. Or, if they own the phone, they must prove it to us by showing us the receipt. Jane couldn’t convince me that she would be able to supply a receipt, or that she would tell him. So forget that option …

Computer hacking is exactly the same as phone hacking but for a computer. It carries the same problems with legality, so again not an option.

Chai and I have a chat about audio bugging. I honestly think this is the best option for Jane. She needs to know what’s happening in his workplace but can’t get in the building itself. If we somehow got an audio bug in there, we’d have no problems.

The other line starts to ring again, so I make my excuses to Chai and hang up.

‘There’s a stain on his trousers!’

‘Hi, Jane.’ No prizes for guessing this time.

‘There’s a stain on his trousers! It’s semen!’

Her voice gets more and more high-pitched every time I talk to her.

‘Do you know that for certain? Or is it a guess?’ I’m trying to be a calming influence.

‘Errrrr … well …’

Thought as much! ‘We have testing kits, if you want to check if it is semen. Although it depends how much it bothers you.’

‘Oh, it bothers me! I’m furious! This proves it!’ Yep, still ranting.

‘If the test is positive then you’ll have some proof, but it may not be semen and even if it is, it could have got there a different way.’ I really care about people, honestly I do, but this is a very big test of my patience. I want to shake her and tell her to get a grip. I thought I was psychotic when I was checking up on James but I certainly never went as far as to analyse odd stains on his clothing.

‘I’ll get the kit sent to you today, Jane. Try to stay calm until it gives you a result. It will tell you in the space of thirty minutes, so you don’t have to wait for ages. Do you think you can do that?’

‘I can. I’ll keep calm and pretend nothing’s wrong until then.’ Then she launches into a whole barrage of stories about how much Tom hates her.

It turns out that they’ve had a very troubled marriage for a while – and when I say a while, I actually mean years. It appears the whole ‘he hates me’ business has some credibility. According to her, he tells her how much he ‘hates her’ every day, and has done for the last four years. He despises everything about her: the way she talks, the questions she asks, the clothes she wears and just about every other part of her personality. They’ve not slept in the same bed for the past seven years, and basically live separate lives.

Neither of them has any hobbies, and they spend all their free time trying to avoid each other in the house. Jane says she has tried to improve her appearance, and even bought some skinny jeans, but Tom told her she looked like ‘mutton dressed as lamb’.

How can people live like this? Why do they do it? Tom has told her every day for years that he wishes he could divorce her, but he hasn’t. I wonder why? Is she financially a lot better off than him, or is she hiding a secret of his? And why doesn’t she walk out on him? Either way, it’s very strange.

On the other hand, my own divorce is still an immense battleground. I’ve tried the polite and civil route for the sake of Paris. When I first decided to divorce James, I had visions of my future life. I would live on my own with Paris in a nice home, not extravagant like I’ve been used to – but normal, easy to manage and lovely. Think picturesque cottage with roses around the door! I’d work a normal job, he’d come and pick her up and spend time with her. All would be friendly and amicable. No hard feelings, just a marriage that didn’t work and we could both move on like adults. Wrong!

He won’t agree to the divorce, legally or financially, and we keep going round in circles with solicitors and courts. In my opinion he’s certainly not kept up his duties to his daughter either.

So I know from my own experience that divorce is traumatic but I really think that, rather than hire a private investigator, Jane and Tom would be better off just spending the money on divorcing each other. For some reason, though, neither of them has taken any steps towards this, so here I am, involved in this messy situation. After over ninety minutes on the phone, Jane has utterly drained me.

After I hang up, I log back onto Facebook and see that Tom has accepted our friend request. I have a look through his profile, all the way back to when he joined. There’s absolutely nothing of any interest. Not a single clue. There are only a few odd status updates: ‘I love my wife so much, I am very lucky’; ‘My family mean more to me than anything’; ‘Jane has been the making of the man I am’.

Clearly Jane herself wrote these status updates! He’s definitely not written them off his own back given what she’s told us about their marriage. Why would she do something like that? If he is up to anything, and was using Facebook to conduct an extramarital affair, he certainly won’t be using it now that he knows she has access to it! This is why clients’ DIY detective stuff is simply a pain. It does nothing but raise suspicion and make our jobs harder. If she hadn’t done that, he would be a lot less suspicious and we could perhaps have found out something interesting through his profile. I huff, puff and place the order for the body fluid detection kit – something else I had found by Googling. Then I slam the laptop lid down and retreat back to the kitchen, and particularly the kettle … I need a cup of tea!

A couple of days later, I’m sound asleep in my bed. This time in my dreams I’m up in the Scottish Highlands, staying in a beautiful castle hotel. The spa facilities are amazing, and I’m sat by the tranquil pool while Paris is splashing in the children’s pool, giggling away to herself. I’m even smiling in my sleep, this little scene makes me so happy. I hear a buzzing, a bit like a fly but bigger than that. I can’t put my finger on what it is, but it’s getting louder. It’s ruining my happy place. I’m flapping my hands around my ears, trying to swat the fly. But it’s not a fly. Now it’s sounding almost like a song. A tune. I can’t make it out … and then it clicks. I grab the pillow from the cold side of the bed and hold it tightly over my ears. If I ignore it, it will go away … But it’s not going away. It stops and starts again. It’s my stupid Mission Impossible ring tone. Boy, do I need to change it!

Huffing, I sit up in bed, a bit like a princess having a very pathetic princess-style strop. My arms are crossed, and I don’t want to answer the phone … but I do anyway.

‘Hello.’ I’m sounding a little grumpy about answering, considering it’s (have a look at the clock) 7.30am! What on earth!

‘Rebecca? It’s Jane. I have the kit. What do I do now?’

Oh my goodness. How do I tell her politely to go away?

‘There are instructions in the box. What do they say?’ Reading instructions would be far too easy for her. Instead she picks up the ‘let’s piss off Rebecca hotline’. I fall sideways onto the pillows and close my eyes. Jane may be on the other end of the phone, but if I block her out this could all be part of a bad dream. Squeeze my eyes shut …

‘They say to run the stick over the item, followed by some liquid stuff that’s got to go on it.’

My eyes are wide open and, nope, she’s still there! She’s on the end of a phone, but she may as well be sat at the bottom of my bed poking my feet for how annoying she is.

‘OK, so do that then.’

‘I’ve done that already. Now what?’

‘How long does it say the test will take?’ If I stay matter-of-fact, these conversations could possibly last less than an hour. I don’t need a repeat of the ninety-minute marathon one.

‘Thirty minutes.’

‘How long has it been on?’

‘Two minutes.’

‘OK, so wait another twenty-eight minutes and see how it goes. Any problems, ring me back, OK?’

‘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.