The Boss immediately delegates the job of contacting the private detective to me.

“How exciting!” Liz exclaims, when I tell her. “Working with a real, live detective.  You get all the best cases.”

Hardly.

“Will he be like Magnum PI, do you think?” asks Alex. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jane snaps, before I can respond.  “This is London not Hawaii.   He will be short, balding and oikish.  I can guarantee it.”

“How do you know? What dealings have you had with private detectives?”

“Plenty.”

She folds her arms. 

I imagine the sort of encounters Jane has had: cheating boyfriends; dodgy flatmates; unscrupulous landlords.  She’s the type of girl who knows her way around the personal ads.

“Such as?” Alex challenges her.

“You wouldn’t want to know.”

“Yes I would.  Since you’re holding yourself out as such an expert.  Tell me how you know – with absolute certainty - that the detective won’t look like Tom Selleck!”

“Because,” she says slowly, “If he wore an Hawaiian shirt on Cheapside, he would get arrested.”

“You see!  You can’t ever give a serious answer!”

“Well, he would hardly blend in.”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it.  He could look like Tom Selleck and wear a pinstriped suit.”

“And I could fly to the moon on the back of a Toilet Duck.”

The fact is, she probably could. 

“He might be a she,” Liz points out.

A lady detective.  We hadn’t thought of that. 

“Like Miss Marple!” she laughs.

“See,” Jane gives Alex one of her looks.  “You only have a 50% chance of him being male, never mind looking like Tom Selleck.”

“If not Tom Selleck then David Hasselhoff,” he adds.  “From Knight Rider. 
In black leather…..”

“You’ll get Colombo.  From Walthamstow.  If you’re lucky.”

“Well, thanks for the analysis, all of you,” I huff. “But it is me who will be working with him – or her.  Me who will be instructing him to snoop on some poor victimised girl, whose only crime is rejecting the advances of her selfish, sex-crazed boss!”

“Have you had too much caffeine today?” Jane peers at me.

“I have not had any caffeine!”

“That’s it then,” she nods. “You’re in withdrawal.  Go and get some Nescafe immediately.  Restore equilibrium to your troubled mind.”

“I do not want Nescafe!”

“Kenco then, it doesn’t matter.”

“I DO NOT WANT CAFFEINE!  I WANT A JOB WHERE I DON’T HAVE TO WORK FOR BULLYING TOADS AND I DO NOT HAVE TO SPEND MY DAYS PICKING THROUGH OTHER PEOPLE’S DIRTY LINEN!”

They stare at me in amazement.

“Are you having a breakdown?” Alex feels my forehead for signs of fever.

“NO!”

They clearly think I am.  Judging by the look they are giving me, I fear they may bundle me into the nearest cupboard.   But I can’t stop myself!   I am too upset about the thought of snooping on Amelia.  It feels like snooping on one of my mates.

“I don’t think you are cut out to practise employment law,” Liz advises. “You take it too personally.”

“This case is personal!” I extort. “It’s about a big law firm persecuting its assistants.  And I’m condoning it!  Helping it, even!”

“But only as a double agent,” Jane points out. “You did slip Amelia the crucial information needed to launch the case.”

“That makes it worse! I would never have done that if I had known it would be used as an excuse to publicly vilify her!”

“It will only be used that way, if you let it be,” Alex points out. 

“I can’t stop it. I’m only a lowly, down-trodden assistant myself.”

“You could tip her off……” Jane whispers

Tip her off?  I hadn’t thought of that.   I could warn her!  But how? 

I don’t have time to think about it cos The Boss orders me to set about calling the recommendations we have been given.  

I call the first one but the phone just rings and rings. I’m about to hang up when a surly voice answers.

“Allo?”

“Oh, hello,” I chirp. “My name is Helen Bailey.  I have a client who needs some help.”

“What sort of ‘elp?”

“Investigating a person’s background, movements etc.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, I was told you were a private investigator.”

“Who told you that?”

“A colleague, Malcolm Morris.”

“Never heard of him.”

“He said he had instructed you on a case, years ago, where an ex-husband had stolen his ex-wife’s diary.  You managed to get it back for him.”

“He did, did he?”

“Yes, do you remember that?”

“No.”

“But you are Mr Grindman?” I press.

“Yes.”

“So, I am speaking to the right person? Mr Grindman of Grindman Investigations?”

“I might be.  Depends on who is asking.”

“I’m calling from Craven Wiley & Sharpe; we’re a law firm, in The City.”

“What did you say your name was?”

“Helen Bailey.”

“What’s the firm’s number?”

“020 77569890.”

“Put the phone down and I’ll call you back.”

Two minutes later, he is put through by reception.

“Helen Bailey, speaking.”

I ‘ad to check you were legit,” he mutters. “You can’t be too careful in this business.  Right, now what did you say you wanted?”

“I would like to know if you can help my client.”

“Depends what kind of help your client needs.”

“Investigating an ex-employee.”

“Why?”

“She’s taking legal action.”

“Oh, one of those…..” he says, knowingly.

Yes, one of those…….

“So, can you help?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“On what you want me to do.  I don’t do nothin’ criminal.”

“You would be asked to use only legitimate means of investigation.”

“All right then.”

“Good.  Then perhaps you could advise me of what your usual fees are?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“On the job.”

“Do you not have an hourly rate?”

“No.  Fixed and final.  That’s my motto. ”

“If I give you a better description of the job, could you give me an idea?”

“No.”

“No?”

“I don’t take instructions over the phone.  As I said, you can’t be too careful these days……”

There are nutcases lurking around every corner.  And every telephone line…….

“So, how do you take instructions?” I persist.

“We’ll have to arrange a meeting.  Face to face, like.”

“Very well.  How about 10am on Monday?”

“Fine. See you there.”

“But you don’t know where I am -”

“I’ll find you.  That’s my job.”

Click.  The line goes dead.  

I feel like I’ve just stepped off the pages of a Martina Cole novel.  I half expect him to turn up smoking Woodbines and clutching a rolled up newspaper. 

By contrast, Miranda’s recommendation could not be more different.

“Corporate Intelligence Solutions, how may I help you?” Trills a plummy voice.

“I would like to speak to one of your intelligence officers, if I may, Philip Quick.”

“Putting you through!”

“Philip Quick here,” his voice lives up to his name “How may I help?”

“My name is Helen Bailey,” I explain, “I have a client who needs some help with an opponent.”

“You have come to the right place.  We are experts in neutralising opposing forces.  All our staff members are ex services.  Trained to the highest standards; specialising in the collection, collation, consideration and exploitation of corporate intelligence material.  With over three hundred years work of intelligence experience in our team, which comprises of experts in covert-surveillance; counter insurgence; fraudulent trading; money laundering and industial espionage. We work for Governments, Military Institutions, Information Technology Networks and International Agencies.”

I think this might be overkill.

“What sort of thing do you have in mind?”

“We need you to investigate a claimant in an employment dispute,” I feel rather guilty for wasting their impressive expertise on something so trivial.

“We can deploy the best surveillance personnel, forensic computer analysts and data analysis experts in the business.”

“And how much will you charge for this?”

“To tell you that, we would need to evaluate the risk profile, assess opposing strategies and review the data profile.”

Meaning read the case file and have a chat? 

“Logistically and professionally, what does that entail?” I decide to match him pace for pace in officiousness.

“We would need to call a meeting.”

“Aha!” I’m getting the hang of this. “How does two o’clock on Monday sound?”

“Fourteen hundred ours on the 10th.  Agreed.”

“Great.  Who shall I expect?”

“Myself, and our group leader, Major Smart. He attends all reconnaissance meetings.”

“Ok, I shall see you then.”

“Roger that.”

Roger?!  Having left Martina Cole, I now feel as if I’m in living in Bravo Two Zero.  

Jane sums it up: “Sam Spade versus The A Team!”

Alex puts on his best American voice-over tone: “If you have a problem, that you cannot solve, and no one else can help, if you can find them, maybe you can hire…….Corporate Intelligence Solutions.”

“Poor Amelia,” Liz laughs. “She’ll either be stalked or carpet bombed!”

“Which do you think The Boss will go for?”

“The A Team,” I reply, without hesitation. “He will love all that “Boys’ Own” nonsense; pretending to be on some silly SAS mission.   I think Carlton will want Spade though, he has that same slightly grubby quality that he has.”

“He won’t mind getting his hands dirty, you mean?”

“Precisely.”

“Carlton sounds vile.”

“He is.”

“You really should warn her, you know.”

“But how? Without endangering my job?  I can’t stroll up to her in the ladies and tip her the wink, this time.”

“Perhaps not, but there must be other ways to skin a cat.”

We think as hard as we can.

Jane nods, cautiously.  “I know what you can do.”

And, with that, she’s off.   Returning a few moments later with computer print out.

“We’ll use this,” she says, thrusting a social networking site print-out under my nose.

“We don’t know she’s a member,” I dismiss it. “Besides, I can’t contact her that way.  Sam and The A Team could find out.”

“You can’t,” she agrees, “But we could.  We don’t, officially, know anything about your case….”

The penny drops.  Form a “spy ring”!  Like the The Cambridge Five. 

Only not as exciting.

And without defections to The Soviet Union.

 ”But she has no idea who you are,” I protest.  “She could reject your advances.”

“She’s not stupid.  She will check us out and find out who we are.   Then curiosity will get the better of her.  She will make contact.  I can guarantee it.”

It has a certain, simplistic charm.    Liz and Alex nod, encouragingly.

“Ok,” I say, at last, “Let’s try it.”

Grindman and Co might think they’re the best detectives in the business, but they are no match for the deviousness of Jane Black.