An Inspector Calls

Not really an Inspector, just a friendly pair of policemen who looked at the mess, asked for a list of missing items and called a locksmith out to secure the flat for the remainder of the night. In the morning I chased the landlord's agents for the cc tv coverage of the front hall (which later proved to be of such poor quality that the two suspects could have been French and Saunders or Brown and Darling), bought a new laptop and received a very worrying phone call from the helpful boys at Macace, my ISP, who suspected someone had been attempting to hack into my accounts.

It was a horrendous day: changing the passwords on everything from bank accounts to British Airways' exec club; notifying the Passport Office; clearing up the mess of papers and checking for more missing items whilst feeling oh so vulnerable with the memory sticks in my jeans pockets. I was fairly confident that the burglars had not got what they were looking for, which meant they would be back. James was adamant that for strategic negotiating reasons we should not reveal what we have on Vijay's transactions to LRI at this stage, so we could not preempt further attempts to seize the evidence  by simply sending the documents to LRI's Board, the press and anyone else we could think of, which was my first reaction.

James called in his firm's security advisors and his offices were swept for bugs. Then they came to my flat. They found two rather obvious bugs and a more subtle third. I was warned off using my mobile phone in the flat, or talking on the landline near the windows or using any nearby phone boxes. I could feel my stress levels rising and a sort of unarticulated panic. When I went out of the flat, I was constantly glancing over my shoulder; the skin between my shoulderblades burned from the pressure of unseen eyes; my ears were so tuned to footsteps behind me that I could not concentrate on conversation with shopkeepers. All I could think of was that 'they' must be watching me and 'they' would return.

By teatime I was in quite a state; I neither felt safe in the flat nor out of it and I thought wistfully of the peace of the past few days in the sunny woods increasingly flushed with spring. As darkness fell I packed, called a cab and raced down the stairs, certain I was under observation. By changing cabs three times, I made an erratic way to the mainline station and jumped on the first train heading in the right direction. After a long walk from the last bus, I wriggled through the gorse tunnel just before midnight.

The clearing was peaceful and the quavering hoots of tawny owls backwards and forwards across the fields were the loudest sounds. Moonlight feel on the tent which looked untouched, the inside zipped up as I had left it. I wondered where Stalky was. The biscuits I had left for him, expecting to be back within twenty-four hours, had gone and the 'porch' of the tent was untenanted. I crawled into my sleeping bag almost fully clothed and fell into sleep as densely as a smooth stone slipping into a pond.

The temptation of fate

The last time I posted, it seemed like the initiative was returning to me. My lawyer had prised a promise from my employers and for the first time in days I relaxed and began to look forward to the summer. 

For the next couple of days, James and I waited for the promised letter and with each hour of its failure to materialise, the tension rose. After 24 hours James lost patience and rang the head of HR, only to be told she was not available. Emails went unanswered, the head of the legal department did not return his calls. Things suddenly started looking very bad and I could hear in James' tone that he was worried as well as annoyed. After two days of the runaround from LRI, James started to put the pressure on with a threat of a claim on my part. In his letter he alluded to certain documents in my possession which were highly discreditable to LRI. "That should do it." He told me over the phone as I waited anxiously in the London flat. It certainly did.

When I returned from dinner with friends that night, the door of my flat had been forced and the flat ruthlessly searched. My desktop computer and the Asus mini laptop I have been using on my camping adventures were gone; filing cabinet broken open; cds and backup hard drive missing as well. My passport had been taken, yet the jewellery in the same drawer was untouched. Standing in the paper strewn mess of my office I rang James. His mobile number was engaged and I found out why when he returned my call a few minutes later. Security at his plush offices had just alerted him that his office had been similarly turned over. "Where are the LRI docs?" we asked simultaneously. His copies were in his office strong room which the burglars had not breached. Mine were on the USB drives which I have been carrying on me ever since I left London.

"It can't be a coincidence," I said, hoping he'd contradict me, "both of us being burgled at the same time." And then, "Where are you? Are you at home?" 

"Yes," he replied, "And it's all right, they haven't been here ... yet."

"Should I call the police?" 

There was a pause; finally James said "Yes, that's the right and proper thing to do. Besides, your passport has been stolen and that has important implications for the security of your identity. Call the police now and insist that they come round."

"How much should I tell them?" A longer pause this time. 

"You're shocked, frightened, confused. Your computers have been stolen and your passport. The burglars must have been interrupted because they didn't have time to  take anything else. We should talk about this tomorrow morning. I'll drop by on my way to work." As I said goodnight I caught the message in his words - my burglars might have left something as well as taking something - or perhaps my flat or phone had been bugged earlier. The feeling of security of the last few days had evaporated.

It's who you know

London. Tuesday 14th. Not a good day. I struggled to open the door of my flat in London. There was a huge pile of post inside the door - unmissable offers, bank statements, dross. And a letter from LRI. I still can't quite believe it. blah blah blah "regret to inform you, you have been suspended on full pay pending investigation of serious allegations of misconduct on your part ...". I sat down on the sofa and read the letter again and again. No hint as to who making the allegations or the nature. No invitation to respond, no suggestion that I had a right to know what the allegations are.

I made a cup of coffee and reviewed potential courses of action. Then I picked up the phone and called LRI's HR department. The letter was signed by the deputy head of HR, but I don't deal with second liners. I asked to speak to the head, a woman I can't stand. She is the kind of person who gives business women a bad name. Vain, aggressive, duplicitous. She congratulates herself that she is playing in the deep pool with the big fish and is too thick to realise that they regard her as their disposable instrument, not their equal. That day she was 'not available' according to her sidekick who volunteered her assistance.

"Tell Sheila that she needs to speak to me now. I'll hold."

"That's not possible, she's in a meeting."

"She'll want to take this call, because if she doesn't, she'll be answering calls from my solicitor and the national newspapers ... not necessarily in that order."

"oh," there was a flustered pause,

"I'll see if I can interrupt her."

When Sheila came on the phone she attempted to take aggressive control of the phone call. I waited until she had run out of words and then, ignoring all that she had already said, asked "What are these allegations, and who made them?"

She tried to evade answering so I just kept repeating the same question until she offered "I think you'd better come into the office and we can discuss this." I smiled.

"I don't think so. This is a matter that requires legal support and witnesses. So we'll meet at my solicitors and you can bring with you all the background to this nonsense, if there is any. You'd better be prepared to name names. I'll ring back with an appointment time." I put the phone down and had a long hard think.

I didn't know any employment law specialists but I do know a man who knows everyone. Mac's a director of a City PR agency and an inexhaustible source of scurrilous (but true) gossip, essential names and very, very hardnosed advice. On an off-the-record basis I traded my knowledge of an unnamed insurance company lurking in the living dead zone, for the name of the top man in unlawful dismissal cases and ten minutes later was talking to my new solicitor, James. And so it was that James and I found ourselves facing Sheila and LRI's in-house solicitor that afternoon. I was glad to see it was the head of the legal department, not an insultingly junior colleague.

James began proceedings by reminding them that I was on sick leave, suffering from stress and suggested their letter amounted to harassment as there was no foundation to it. He's a bit of a stirrer. I really like that in a lawyer. I sat still looking thin and fragile (head swathed in a scarf to hide new hair and blue makeup shadows artfully brushed around my eyes) and said little, as directed by James.

By the end of an unnerving hour, it transpired that the allegations of misconduct had been made against me by a person who was himself the subject of a very high level external investigation, the substance of which could not be revealed to us. I can only hope that person is Vijay but it was clear that both Sheila and the LRI lawyer were completely out of their depth and were not party to that investigation.

It is also clear that no-one wants me back on LRI's premises until the big investigation is concluded and one or more people have been fired/thrown to the wolves/given a huge pay off/promoted or all of the above (cf Fred the Shred). And they want me gagged. I could see that James was having a "Gotcha, you bastards!" moment and thoroughly enjoying this as he launched into the attack. In fact, I was quite worried he would succeed in forcing them to take me back, just when I was looking forward to my leisurely summer under the flysheet. Then I realised that he'd expertly backed them into a corner from which the only way out was a graceful compromise that he proposed. They seized it with both snouts! The letter of suspension is to be formally withdrawn, with an apology; and I am to be granted a six month sabbatical (on full pay including bonus) whilst the other investigation proceeds. Result!

Champagne all round! After long hot baths, intensive clothes washing and general household chores, I shall be returning to my gorse field to try and second guess what is happening at LRI now. At least I don't have to skulk about in hiding from the media since if there are any leaks from the investigation, my name is unlikely to be in the forefront. Of course, if I wish to continue enjoying camping in the woods, I will still have to evade Farmer Giles, Larry the Lumberjack and Simon the Shepherd...  

Primrose wine

A recipe for Primrose Wine has pinged into the mailbox from an anonymous supporter. Thanks!

Primroses are a protected plant so I've been looking for a source of domesticated ones that I can pick with a clear conscience. More about that later. However, dandelions have suddenly burst out yellow all over and they certainly do not deserve or need protection from anyone. We used to make dandelion wine and it is certainly an effective way to get drunk. We were inspired by a strange pre-war children's book that Sky found in a box of junk. Some adventures involving children running feral and reliving the Persian legend of Sohrab and Rustum. They made dandelion wine but in retrospect I think it was more like beer.

Sunday was a long lovely day of sunshine here but we have been plagued by rain since. On the one hand, no water carrying - the flysheet captures enough. On the other hand, the ground is getting muddy again and everything in the tent is subtly damp. Damp hair, damp dog, damp bedding. I don't want to be disloyal about Stalky when he's not here to defend himself (sleeping off another rabbit I caught in a snare since apparently he doesn't 'do hunting' in the rain but lies in bed with a metaphorical crossword and cup of tea), but he does have a certain aroma in high humidity. He pokes his long nose cautiously out of the tent, collects a spot or two of rain on his nose, sighs philosophically and turns his back on the day.

I've been to the local library and used the computer there as the batteries aren't charging in the rain. A PC. How do people manage to run businesses on Microdaft? The demned thing kept crashing and faltering. Or maybe my fingers were shaking with shock - I've been spotted, electronically speaking, by a cousin. Well what the hell was she doing on that website? I thought she was married and in Australia, but clearly not!

Easter approaches. There are real easter eggs here or at least fragments of shells from all the noisily nesting birds - blackbird's egg like an improbably turquoise piece of sky. And there were rare Clouded Yellow butterflies before it started raining. 

A good deed is never lost. He who sows courtesy, reaps friendship

One of the benefits and drawbacks of home education is the acquisition of huge amounts of knowledge quite outside the Government's definition of education. Apposite quotes? Don't get me started! Lesser works of unfashionable Victorian writers? Reddit!

Anyway, last night's good deed did reap a reward. After I had cooked, consumed and cleaned up supper, and offered the dog some water in the billy can, I retreated to the comfort of the sleeping bag and Thermarest (plenty of product placement in this blog! Perhaps I should get sponsored by a camping equipment shop?), leaving my dinner guest outside. I suppose I hoped he'd push off in the night. The remains of the rabbit were suspended in a nearby silver birch, above the level of interest of the local foxes. I read for a bit, trying to ignore the odd scratch and reproachful whine outside the tent and presently fell into the usual dreamless sleep of the clear conscience and the psychopath.

In the morning I rather hoped for a steaming cup of tea, freshly brewed by Stalky, if he was still hanging around. No such luck. Another beautiful morning and an empty clearing. Entirely dog free.

However, by the time I had brewed some tea, eaten a bagel inadequately warmed by balancing on top of the kettle thingy, washed in the remaining water supplemented by baby wipes, collected up the rubbish and decided to go for a walk, it was 7.15 am and Stalky had shimmied back into the clearing, too late to bear a cup of tea. Soundless, he took up position beside me, looking up expectantly.

I didn't have a clear idea where to go - thinking that it would be sensible to get an idea of the topography, but Stalky seemed to be subtly leading me his way, deeper into a deciduous forest, interspersed with holly thickets. He trotted soundless by my side, his ears relaxed, head down, seemingly uninterested by his surroundings.

Then, with a rustle, he had vanished between the bushes. For a moment or two, I waited on the path but there were no sounds of dog pursuing prey and eventually I walked on, to be startled when he suddenly rejoined me from a bramble thicket, dragging a limp pheasant with him. The corpse he dropped at my feet and then stepped back. I picked the dead bird up; there wasn't a mark on it's warm body. Payback for last night's meal? He shrugged and trotted off back the way we'd come.

Needless to say, that afternoon found me at the nearest Pets@Home, stocking up on flea treatment, wormer, tick tweezers (2 pairs - his n'hers) and some doggy treats; and that night found a heavily medicated and much cleaner dog on the inside of the flysheet and the outside of the remaining rabbit. The upside for me was warm feet.

The poacher's companion

On Friday I moved to exclusive new premises; desirable; detached and strictly single occupancy. Well that was the plan.

A cheerful bus driver dropped me off at a crossroads a couple of miles from my gorse field as the light was fading on Friday afternoon. It was that time of the evening when the deer emerge from their daytime cover to the edges of fields and rabbits flash their white scuts. The birds are closing down but two owls were hooting mournful, wavering notes to each other. The pack was heavy with water, a couple of bottles of wine and food and I wasn't paying much attention to the road when a shiny black four wheel drive rocketed past. In it's wake it left the the tumbled body of a careless rabbit.

It was a decent size - young enough to be tender, big enough for a couple of substantial meals and I didn't waver long over the concept of a roadkill meal. I picked up the warm body and blood dripped onto my boots and jeans. Not clever; it's not like I have an inexhaustible supply of clean clothes. After some consideration, I found the big penknife in a pocket of the pack and scrambled off the road to clean the beast on a handy tree stump. Skinned, paunched and jointed it was quite pile of meat and luckily I had a clean plastic bag to carry it in.

When I emerged from the gorse tunnel, dusk had settled on the clearing and the tent was in shadow. But something seemed wrong. The solar charger was still hanging on the tent side, but the tent doorway was unzipped, and I distinctly remembered zipping it up. I bent to look inside and my eyes met an unfriendly gaze in the shadowy space. Lounging on my sleeping bag, was a motionless dog. Shreds of coloured paper indicated it had found my teatime biscuits. The dog and I looked at each other. When I inched closer it raised a lip in a grimace revealing very long, very white teeth.

I backed off to consider things and realised I had a solution in my hand. Removing a piece of rabbit from the bag I tentatively waved it in the mouth of the tent and was rewarded by a scuffle. With lightening speed the meat was seized from my hand by the passing dog which retreated to the far side of the clearing to consume its prize. Out of the gloom of the tent interior, I could see more detail. It was a small greyhound or lurcher type, long-nosed, long-legged, painfully thin.

Its blue-grey coat, the exact colour of the cats we had had in the barns at one of our many homes, was dusty and scarred, but there was a shabby elegance about the animal. He had the air of a gentleman fallen on hard times. The rabbit piece was soon consumed, bones and all and the dog showed no signs of leaving. in fact he was gazing at me expectantly, his long, slightly crooked tail waving very slowly in an ingratiating manner. I prepared to throw him another piece of my supper but he came softly towards me and took it from my hand as gently as a feather falling on water. After the second piece he seemed satisfied and lay down in that peculiarly gazehound fashion, front paws extended neatly forwards, hind legs tucked beneath body, long nose resting on fore arms.

With his steady gaze on me, and a glass of wine ito hand, I lit the gas stove and cooked the rabbit with onions, wine, courgettes and baby potatoes. It was delicious and for the first time I began to believe that this strange experience could be enriching and fun rather than a bizarre ordeal.

Deep in the furze

Up betimes, and out of the door by six of the clock. Or, more accurately, out of the tent flap. Packed and left the conifers without breakfast. It was a long hard slog over to the gorse field with so much to carry. Definitely more weight in the packs since I arrived but probably less on my body.

It was a still and silent morning, a thin mist softening the landscape like a watercolour wash. A pheasant erupted from almost beneath my feet with loud carks of alarm and the drumming of woodpeckers accompanied me for the first mile through the woods. A long hard pull up to an escarpment edge and then two counties were laid out before me, as indistinct and imaginary as an ancient map. 

The gorse field is separated from the woods by a rusty barbed wire fence whose untensioned strands hang from rotting posts. Hardly a barrier for determined livestock but awkward to negotiate. Lowering the packs over the fence, I wriggled underneath it and then surveyed what appears to be an impenetrable barrier of spiny, prickly gorse. At my feet a very faint track led through last years dead bracken between some trees and vanishes from sight. When I followed the track delicately, a small fox-sized and fox-scented opening appeared in the vegetation. Like Beetle,  pursued by Stalky, I wormed my way into the gorse, through a fairish tunnel that after a few twists and turns, opened out into quite a large grassy clearing. Perfect.

With the maturing day, the clearing is a warm and sunny spot and there is enough room for the tent, a fireplace sunk in the turf and to loll around with a book, undisturbed by gamekeepers. However, rations were low and  so the afternoon was devoted to a trip into town and a search for internet access.