Is there anything else?” he demanded. Maggie sensed she was pushing her luck

Once Maggie gained entry through deceit to the serviced block where the company purported to be based, the poor receptionist – Norman, he was called – didn’t stand a chance. He’d chuckled when she said she was looking for Jason. You and the rest of the world. Stood stoically as, in a halting voice, she’d recounted her tale of woe: how she’d put a cheque in the post, realised – too late – she’d added an extra zero, absolutely had to retrieve the envelope before the cheque could be cashed.

Norman had taken her by the elbow. Steered her to an office on the third floor. Looked on as she rummaged through unopened mail addressed to a plethora of different investment vehicles. Thrown sympathetic looks when she turned a teary face, only to concede she may not have posted the envelope after all.

Norman had even succeeded in getting the elusive Jason on his cellphone, retreating to a discreet distance so Maggie could untangle her affairs in privacy. Now she asked, “And this return is guaranteed?”

“Rock solid. We’ve been investing in this product for going on five years and never had an unhappy client yet.”

Neutral

Maggie struggled to maintain a neutral expression. Mrs Cowie, her own client, had been first tremulous, then tearful, ultimately despairing. By this stage in her nascent career as a private investigator, Maggie had encountered the scenario too often: a retired individual conned by some wide boy.

At the lower end of the scale it was the knock on the back door: the “tradesmen” charging inordinate sums upfront to tarmac driveways or lop branches, disappearing with the work half done. But this case was in a different league.

The 79-year-old widow had been introduced by a fellow parishioner to a financial advisor, who in turn had persuaded Mrs Cowie to withdraw funds from her underperforming savings account and reinvest in what he described as a miracle investment vehicle.

When an unforeseen emergency had caused the widow to seek a withdrawal, she discovered her pension pot had been virtually wiped out. The distraught woman had pursued every avenue to seek redress, had come to the agency as a last resort.

“But,” Maggie countered, “couldn’t the stock market plunge without warning?”

Blank face. “What I’m trying to say is, we live in such an uncertain world: acts of terror, the price of oil…”

“You’re so right. But market volatility has been factored in, and anything more…dramatic – that’s where your FSA guarantee kicks in. Protects your savings.”

Draw him out. “Isn’t that limited to a certain amount?” “Well, yes – 85K.” Sideways look. “But that’s a fair whack.”

“But you’re proposing I invest my entire pension…” Maggie well knew the FSA guarantee had fallen to 75K per financial institution, but had no intention of letting on.

“With any investment there’s always a small element of risk. But with this product it’s tiny. And you know what they say…” Sly look. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

She nibbled a fingernail. “I’m not sure.”

Small risk

“Let me reassure you.” Jason leaned across the table. “Do you think all these other clients – doctors, lawyers, well-informed people like yourself, if I may say so – would have rushed to participate if the infinitely small risk wasn’t far outweighed by the return?”

“We-ell,” Maggie deliberated, “I’d need time to think about it. Do you have a leaflet I could take away and have a look over?”

“No. Sorry. Things move so fast in this business, we’d have a new product on offer as soon as the last one went to print.”

Get something in writing. “Then you won’t mind if I make a few notes.” Jason’s eyebrows met in the middle. “Who did you say you got my name from?”

“Oh dear…now, who was it?” Apologetic smile. “My head’s been all over the place since my husband died. Most likely someone from church. Now, if you’d let me have a piece of paper?”

With some reluctance, Jason reached into an inside pocket, tore a sheet from a diary.

“So, six per cent?”

“That’s right.”

“You couldn’t just write that down for me?” Maggie made her hand shake as she offered her pen. “My nerves have been that bad…”

Frowning, Jason jotted a note. “Guaranteed?” “That’s what I said.” “Would you write that too?” Jason scribbled the word.

And you’re sure 85K of that would be protected?” “Totally.” Jason’s fingers drummed nervously on the tabletop. “If you’d add that?” Jason eyed her, obviously rattled. “Is there anything else?” he demanded. Maggie sensed she was pushing her luck. She smiled sweetly. “Not for the moment.”

“If I’ve answered your questions…” He pushed the piece of paper and pen across the table. “All I need now is a cheque and I can get that money earning for you right away.”

She rummaged in her handbag. Deposited on the table a packet of Polo mints, a pink comb, a sleeve of Kleenex pocket tissues. “Oh, dear,” her eyes widened in alarm, “I can’t seem to lay my hands on it.” She rummaged some more.

Stricken

“Don’t say I’ve left it at home. Do you know, Jason,” she leaned in confidentially, “I know it won’t go any further, what with you being in the business you’re in, but I can’t tell whether I’m coming or going since I’ve been on these anti-depressants.

“Short-term, you understand, but…” Stricken face. “If you could just help me by writing down your bank details.”

“Actually,” Jason countered smoothly, “a cheque in the post would suit me better.” Oh, no!

“But that would take days. And didn’t you just say I should get my money earning for me as soon as possible?” Those teeth again. “Sure did.”

“Well, if you’ll put the details down there…” She turned the paper around, slid it towards him. “Bank sort code, account number.” She thrust the pen into his hand. “Oh, and the full name on the account.” She watched as, chewing his lip, Jason appended the information.

“You’re so sweet,” she slipped the pen and paper into her bag. “And…” Coy smile. “Me such a silly woman too, forgetting to bring everything I needed with me.”

Not half as silly as poor Mrs Cowie. It was almost certainly too late to retrieve the poor woman’s savings. Still, if Maggie had an account number and a sample of the sleazebag’s handwriting, she could pass them to Brian. Fraud would follow the money trail, and maybe Maggie’s input would save some other vulnerable soul the same fate.

She stood. “Thanks for the coffee.”

Jason got to his feet. “You’ll be in touch, then?” He extended a limp hand.

“You’ve been such a help,” she smiled broadly, “I’m going to put a friend onto you.” With a bit of luck, he’ll nail you. “And I’ll transfer the funds to your account the minute I get home.”

More on Monday.

Cross Purpose (£8.99) is the first in Claire MacLeary’s Harcus & Laird crime trilogy, featuring an unlikely pair of middle aged female private investigators. The second, Burn Out, and the third, Runaway, are available now. All published by Saraband Publishing https:// saraband.net