Just My Luck(12)

Rob is stirring some hot water into a pot of oats; he always has breakfast at his desk. He stirs slowly, anticlockwise. Judy is vaping outside in the street; at all times she insists on keeping the door to the office open as she hates to miss out on any of the chatter. It is essential to her to know who watched what on TV at the weekend, even if it means everyone else catches a chill. Heidi still has her earbuds in, she likes to listen to audio books and hates stopping mid-chapter. Most of my co-workers simply have their heads down. The office opens at 9.30 a.m. and these fifteen minutes represent the calm before the storm; they are generally used to gather thoughts and breath.

I plonk down in front of my screen, flick open my diary and run through today’s ‘to do’ list. This morning is drop-in clinic. I desperately hope Toma will come in today. Over the past few months I have been investigating his claim that the property owner was ultimately responsible for the appalling conditions in the bedsit he shared with his wife and child. Ultimately responsible for their deaths. Together, we have researched his hunch that Elaine Winterdale took the fall for her dodgy boss or bosses. It quickly became apparent that his hunch was likely to be correct. As soon as the trial was over, she moved into a brand-new, high-end apartment. We discovered that she didn’t own it, the registered owner was the same company as that of the property the Albu family had lived in. It looks a lot like a sweetener to me. More digging around led to the discovery that the same property company is responsible for a number of slum residencies, just as Toma claimed, including the one Toma lived in for a while when he was working for nothing other than food and a place to stay. So not only a slum landlord then, although that would be bad enough, but a modern-day slaver. This landlord had not learnt a lesson. Far from it.

Through not entirely legal means, we’ve managed to find our way into three of these slum properties. I’m not proud of this. I do try to follow rules and of course I respect laws, but sometimes the end justifies the means. It’s not as though we were breaking and entering, I just flashed my business cards and said I had been asked to inspect the properties. I should have been prepared; after all, Toma told me he’d had no heating in his property for two and a half years – other than one small electric fire that they only dared use spasmodically because of the expense – but nothing prepared me.

These places horrified me.

One of the properties had no carpets, just bare floorboards. None of them had curtains to offer privacy or even hide the cracked or missing windowpanes. In two of the properties there were no doors on any of the kitchen cupboards. I suspected that most likely someone, in desperation, had broken them off and burnt them for fuel. There was damp on the walls in all three places and the shared bathroom facilities turned my stomach. It’s disgusting expecting people to live this way. It’s cruel, debasing.

None of the properties had carbon-monoxide alarms, and one of them had a boiler that needed to be condemned immediately. I called the gas board. I’ve written to the registered owner and to the councils where the properties are located, stating the need for alarms and other vital improving measures. I’m taking appropriate action where I can, but I am not getting very far. Until Friday I couldn’t even attach a name to the property company. Corrupt landlords don’t readily expose their identities. It’s taken a lot of digging to finally find the name of the individual who is responsible.

I had planned to share that information with Toma straight away; I was desperate to, but now I’m not so certain. Would he be able to cope with the knowledge I have? What would he do with it? The sad truth is, I think it’s unlikely that the landlord will ever be put away for a crime that Elaine Winterdale has already pleaded guilty to.

It isn’t fair. Writing letters isn’t enough. And I know Toma will think so too. They are not going to get away with it. I can’t – I won’t – let that happen.

We have to be more creative in seeking justice.

Usually, I try not to get personally involved in the cases I work on. It doesn’t help, not in the end. I’m compassionate, that’s a given, or I wouldn’t do this line of work, but it’s best to stay objective, efficient, clear-sighted. I do my best work that way. The past couple of months, since Toma Albu came into my life, that has been increasingly difficult. I can’t help but admire his particular strength and dignity; his fierce loyalty and determination. I understand him. I realise I have become more involved than I should. It was hard not to.

And now it’s impossible.

I pop my head around my boss’s office door, knock as I walk in. The knocking is a courtesy. Ellie operates an open-door policy and all the staff here think of her office as an extension of our open-plan space. Sometimes if the meeting rooms are full, Ellie vacates to give us and our clients some privacy. That’s about the only time the door is ever closed.

‘Hiya, Lexi, how was your weekend?’ Ellie asks.

Where do I start answering that one? ‘Hot,’ I say lamely. Thank goodness I’m British and always have the weather to fall back on for conversational fodder.

‘I know, right. Did you make the most of it?’

‘Yes, thank you.’ She starts tapping her keyboard, always busy. ‘Ellie, I was wondering whether I could take the afternoon off. I need some personal time. Sorry about the short notice. Something has come up.’

‘Yes, fine. Of course.’

‘I’ll work through my lunch but need to leave at 2 p.m., so I’ll owe a few hours. I’ll make it up this week.’