The building Janine lived in was stunning, in a sort of McMansion type of way. It was a cream stucco house, though house is a misnomer. I’d wondered why the Artemises had chosen a flat instead of a secluded villa somewhere, but now I’d seen the place, I understood. The building was vast, stretching the length of at least six houses, and as it rose, balconies appeared, getting larger and larger. Roses bloomed off the sides of them, tumbling down as though they were allowed to grow wild, but retaining a very symmetrical appearance. Carefully arranged to look casual. The windows were floor to ceiling but all blocked out by blinds, and the top of the building had a large flag pole from which hung the principality’s colours. I stood back and counted the floors. Eight in total, and I knew from the design magazine that the Artemis property took up three. Craning my neck, I could just see the glass balcony at the very top where Janine liked to do her yoga in the morning sun. I walked around to the back of the property, but it was shut off with a large and imposing wall and a gate which presumably led to the car park. There was a big metal entrance door to one side, which suggested the presence of a goods lift.
Naturally, CCTV cameras were dotted about, I could see them in at least five places. For all that, the main door was remarkably easy to access, only a wrought-iron gate and a big gold knocker stood between me and the intercom. Oh, and a man standing guard at the door. I was fucked if I thought I could just walk in though. Security was almost certainly why they’d chosen this place. It was fortified and presumably had porters on call 24/7 on high alert.
Disheartened, I walked down the street and found a coffee shop where I ordered a café creme and messaged Pete. Had a huge fight with Dad and can’t stay here, no chance of getting into wicked SM’s. Guess it’s all off. I added a crying emoji for full effect and lit a cigarette. He pinged back immediately: oh no, that sucks. Can you give ur dad something to take home? Now there was a thought. Maybe I couldn’t get into the flat, but there must be staff coming and going all day. Janine clearly hadn’t lifted a finger in several decades apart from to point and click at hired helpers. There must be someone who would be open to taking a small device into the property in return for suitable compensation.
I spent the next two days watching the people who entered the building through the side entrance. At first it was hard to tell which flats they were going to, but I built up a profile of them, using my eagle eyes and my perceptive acumen to figure out who worked where. Of course I didn’t. It turned out that the staff at Janine’s all had to wear white hospitality uniforms with Artemis sewn in italics on the breast. Nothing says ‘I’ve lost my humanity’ like making underpaid migrant workers wear your name across their hearts so it was very on brand for this family. Slightly nervous-looking women would emerge carrying laundry bags and handing them over to drivers of dry-cleaning vans, or they would sign for parcels from delivery men and head back indoors quickly, as though they were being timed. I never had the chance to talk to any of them, such was their rush. But there was also a lady who emerged every day at 8 a.m., 2 p.m., and 6 p.m. on the dot with a fluffy little Bichon Frise, and marched off down the street to the promenade. I hate fluffy dogs. They’re always so fucking yappy and up themselves. I assume they’re that way because their owners make them so. You never see a nice calm person with a Bichon Frise. It’s always permanently discontented middle-aged women who communicate their disappointments through the dog. ‘Betty can’t sit here, it’s too hot and she’s getting anxious.’ Betty is fine. You, on the other hand, might want to contact a therapist.
On the second day of surveillance, I went to get a coffee and headed down to the promenade prepared for the 6 p.m. dog walk. Sure enough, the lady in the humanity-free uniform came into view, dragging the unwilling fluffy bundle. I waited for her to pass me, and I followed her for a few minutes before coming to walk beside her.
‘Cute dog,’ I said and smiled. She was tiny this woman, with dark black hair pulled into a low bun. She barely reacted, and would’ve kept walking if the dog had not jumped up at me, leaving faint dirt marks on my pale trousers.
‘No, Henry!’ she cried, bending down to admonish the dog, who looked remarkably uncontrite. I assured her that it was fine but she stopped by a wall and pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket and attempted to brush my legs vigorously.
‘Is he your dog?’ I asked, even though it was obvious from her expression that she didn’t have any affection for the animal. She told me she walked it for her employer, and I expressed sympathy, telling her that it was boring to walk a dog every day – especially such a rude one. She smiled at that, before quickly looking around as though Janine was going to jump out in front of us and berate her for not praising the little fellow.