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 improvement 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 realize 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 two p.m., so I’ll owe a few hours. I’ll make it up this week.”
“I know you will. Everything okay?” Ellie looks up from her screen. Her clever face, which is always set to host a smile, shows she is interested, ready to be concerned, but not nosy.
I nod, relieved when she doesn’t probe. I don’t want to lie and make up some excuse about a dentist appointment or something. I glance at my watch. “I better get at it.”
“Yeah, enough slacking,” she says with a grin, turning back to her own work.
My head is about to explode. The only way through this is to stay busy. I pick up the phone to set up a meeting between the head of community welfare benefit advice service and the local council’s welfare rights unit. Then I set up a meeting of my own with the local branch of Age UK. There is a constant drip of people who need advice but no sign of Toma. With every client I see, I realize that writing a check will solve, or certainly ease, their problems. I have never been so conscious of the power of money, and despite my effort not to think about everything, I am. The responsibility is making me feel nauseous. At about eleven, I stand up from my desk, stretch and walk to the room that is not much bigger than a cupboard but serves as the staff room. Rob and Judy are hovering over the boiling kettle.
Judy exclaims, “Lucky sod, I wish that was me! Did you hear, Lexi? Someone local has won the lottery.”
I freeze. I don’t know how to reply. Luckily, Judy doesn’t really expect me to. Like many of Judy’s questions, it is rhetorical, and she is comfortable answering herself. “Bought the ticket on our high street, can you believe? At WHSmith. Exactly where I buy mine, when I bother. Which I don’t often, just when I’m feeling lucky. I didn’t this week, but I wish I had! It could have been me.”
“Well, only if you’d picked the same numbers,” points out Rob. Judy continues, not sidetracked by this fact. “Isn’t it unbelievable to think the winner might be someone we’ve passed in the street. Brushed up against and we wouldn’t know. Seventeen-point-eight-million pounds! Can you imagine! Lucky sods.”
“How did you find out that the ticket was purchased locally?” I ask, a sliver of something uncomfortable gliding up and down my spine. I’m not used to keeping secrets. I’m normally an open book, available for anyone to read.
“Said so online. The local news feed on Twitter.”
“But how could anyone know?” I ask sharply. “I mean, unless the family are taking publicity, then those details are kept private.” I know this from my conversation with the lottery people on Saturday. Judy eyes me intently, and I blush. I’m not usually sharp and it must seem odd that I know the procedure so well. Have I given myself away? I’m relieved when Judy laughs.
“Are you jealous? Well, if you’re right about that, then I’m guessing the winner is taking publicity.” I shake my head. That’s not what we
