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You're sat there watching TV,
nothing special on just the normal daytime drivel. You take in half of
it and the rest just floats over the top of your head. The phone ring's
and it's your wife "Hi darling, we've been invited out this evening"
yet another office bash. So we arrange to meet in Watford later that
evening. |
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No sooner has the phone been
put down and you are creeping back to that all so comfy sofa, when it
rings again, assuming that it's the wife you casually pick up the phone
with those immortal words " Hi babe what have you forgotten" A
male voice at the other end exclaims "its me you twit, sorry mate
we are working tonight" It was one of my fellow detectives. A man
of few words explained that we are on a job this evening and that I need
to check my email for the case notes. |
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True to his words his email
had arrived with a photograph of a guy in his early thirties. Basically
the notes tell of a newly married couple whose wife is convinced that
her husband is having an affair. The usual tell tale signs were there
such as unusual entries on his credit card, mobile telephone numbers
appearing on his statement showing one particular number occurring a
little too often and at all the wrong times of the day. |
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I pick up the phone to tell my
wife that I can't make that evening, and half way through dialling the
number I falter and change my mind and take the coward's way out and
decide to send a text message. This chaps wife has been informed that he
was working late, and will probably join his mates for a drink later
that evening. Clearly she was upset at this point and needed concrete
evidence that her husband was indeed having an affair. |
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I nipped upstairs and dressed
in a smart jacket, snappy tie and my favourite yellow Ben Sherman shirt;
with a fleeting glance in the mirror I thought that I looked the
absolute bee's knees. Only to be topped off with the grubbiest biker
waterproofs that you could imagine. Having experienced the embarrassment
of losing a mark in central London at the first set of traffic lights, I
vowed that this would never happen again. Thus most of the Central
London work is done on my trusty Yamaha. |
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Temperatures outside were
freezing and steam came from your mouth as you breathed, you spy your
beautiful jaguar parked on the drive with its climate control and heater
beckoning you. With sumptuous leather and wood interior. You think to
your self "are you mad" and you already know the answer to
that one. |
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Once on the bike, you are
cocooned within your crash helmet, and the only thought going through
your mind is to get the job done and get home. At one point you even
start singing to your self to take your mind of the bitter cold that's
now creeping through your waterproofs. Once on the A40 you know that
there is only a half hour to go. |
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I arrive in EC2 outside the
Merrill Lynch building; fortunately there is a courier point so that I
blend into the background without raising too many eyebrows. I pull out
the print that I had made and studied it closely, it was important that
I recognize this guy immediately. So I sit on my bike pull out a cigar
(this was one of those Hamlet moments) and wait. |
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After what seemed a lifetime
albeit just over the hour, my man emerged from the grey metallic
building, he was laughing and joking with two of his pals. They hailed a
taxi, which took them off towards the West End. I followed with ease
through the traffic to a bar in Wardour Street. I figured it was time to
ditch the waterproofs and follow them in. I sat at an adjacent table
trying not to look too conspicuous and started to read a bus timetable
that was to hand. |
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Four young ladies who clearly
knew them well joined them almost immediately; I presume that they all
worked together. The party spirit was in full flow and the girls wanted
to go on to a nightclub, one of the girls was in particularly good form
and was all over our client's husband like a rash. I resigned myself to
thinking the worst, and that our clients suspicions were indeed fact. It
wasn't until I was at the bar when I overheard a conversation that was
to turn everything on its head. |
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Our guy was explaining to one
of his colleagues that he had been to the travel agents that lunchtime,
and had bought tickets for a surprise skiing holiday in Northern Italy
for his wife as a Christmas present. He had been secretly taking skiing
lessons at the dry slopes at Northholt. Apparently his wife was already
a competent skier and he did not want to show himself up. Half an hour
later our chap had excused himself from the party and went off to catch
a train home, leaving the now very drunk girls and two chaps to go on
clubbing. |
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All in all
everything made sense. We traced the phone calls to a male ski
instructor and the payments on the credit card matched up with that of
the ski school.
I am certain that there is a
moral to this story, but I leave you to work that one out for
yourselves!. |
