Working for the MOB

My mum thought I was a snob, but I detested poverty: potato soup for every meal, and hand-me-down clothes with patches. There were only two ways out - study hard for a profession or turn to crime. So, while my brothers were nicking hubcaps, I hid in the library. The career guidance teacher told me the two best earners were accountants and lawyers, so I studied maths. Accountants understand money, I thought. They must know how to avoid being poor.

I got a job in practice and progressed as far as I could, but I never loved it. Trudging across muddy fields to sit in drafty barns doing VAT returns for farmers gave me no joy, and I decided to leave. A fresh start, I thought. Something different.

The advertised role was Internal Audit, and the “additional skills required” included photography. Having won the recent Animals In Nature competition with a picture entitled Lambs and Fox Cubs, I felt sure I had a good chance of getting it.

            The application form was one of those standardised, tedious things with countless boxes to complete, answering questions about what I would bring to the organisation, but I must have managed to fill it in okay because they asked me for an interview. Strangely, it took place in the bar of the Mill Tavern because, Mr Henderson said, the location of the office was a secret that would only be revealed if I was successful.

A couple of days later, a WhatsApp from an unknown number gave me a what3words location, date, and time – nine a.m. the following Monday. If it hadn’t been signed Freddie Henderson, I’d have assumed it junk or spam.

            The “office” turned out to be a unit at the end of an anonymous row in the industrial estate on the ring road. A blue roller-shutter door stencilled with number thirty-one, a single door, and small window, filled the front of the building. I began to wonder if it was a wind-up as there were no cars in the four parking spaces painted outside, and I couldn’t see any lights inside either, though the window appeared to be covered in reflective film.

            Mr Henderson, ‘Just call me Freddie,’ met me at the door with a friendly greeting, though he told me to park outside one of the other units in future. The office furniture was plain - three cheap desks and a row of filing cabinets. Freddie gave me half a guided tour: the toilet and a small kitchen which was filled with the inviting aroma of fresh coffee. He promised I’d see the warehouse area ‘another day when it’s quiet.’ As far as I could tell, we were the only ones in the building.

            Back in the office we each nursed a mug of the good stuff and Freddie explained about the job.

‘At Modus Operandi Bureau, MOB for short, we are an agency specialising in connecting freelancers with customers. There are two teams of three people in the Internal Audit Department, and you’ll meet Madgie, our other team member when she’s finished the job she’s working on. We work six till six, and the other team works night shift, so you might pass on the way in-or out, but we have a silo policy: don’t speak or engage with them for their, and your own, safety.’

            This role wasn’t sounding a whole lot like internal audit so far. I took a sip of coffee.

            ‘The job itself,’ Freddie continued, ‘has three tasks: vetting/inducting the new freelancers, auditing their work on behalf of the customer, and, occasionally, removing a freelancer from our register.’

            The caffeine hit had improved my confidence. ‘It sounds more like HR. Where does the photography come into it?’

            ‘I’ll show you. Did you bring your ID with you? Here’s your kit.’

            I got out my driving licence and Freddie handed me a camera bag, which I opened while he was checking my details against a clipboard of papers.

            ‘It’s an R3,’ I observed. ‘That’s some kit.’

            ‘Thirty frames per second,’ Freddie agreed.

            ‘Am I going to be taking action shots, then?’

            He nodded. ‘It’s sometimes necessary.’

            I zipped up the camera bag and put it on the desk.

            ‘Induction,’ said Freddie. ‘Hold up your ID next to your face.’ He opened a drawer and pulled out another camera, same model as the one he’d given me, then took a couple of photos. ‘Good. This will go into an encrypted file on the computer and now you need to choose your name for work. Do you have a preference? We can use the random generator programme if you like.’

            ‘Can I be Winston Wolf?’ I asked in jest, but I don’t think Freddie got the reference because he just nodded and wrote it on his paper.

            ‘Right, Winston. I’ll do my best to forget that I ever knew your real name, and you must make sure you never give it out, especially not to the freelancers.’

            I took a gulp of coffee.

            ‘I’ll set you up on the computer and show you how things work.’

Once I had a login and password, Freddie pointed out the work areas on the computer. First, a Dropbox where new “cases” came in. Second, a database of freelancers with a traffic lights system to show if they were available for work, and tags for the type of jobs they would do. Once I’d been trained, my task would be to allocate the jobs and send details to the freelancers, who would confirm with details of where and when they intended to complete the task. Freddie and Madgie (and eventually me too) would go out to record the job being completed, then we’d make sure the operative got paid.

            Although I was fairly sure I’d worked out the answer, I had to ask the question. ‘Give me an example of the type of work these freelancers do.’

            Freddie pulled out his phone and flicked across the screen for a moment. ‘Did you hear about the fire at the furniture factory last night?’ He tilted his phone toward me, showing the BBC news headlines.

            I nodded.

            ‘The night shift handled that one, but I’ll show you the pics of it being set when they’ve come in. That’s a standard type of contract, insurance jobbies.’

            ‘What about…life insurance claims? Do we deal with those too?’

            ‘Of course.’ Freddie nodded. ‘That’s the bread-and-butter of our business and why we need to take pictures.’

            ‘I don’t understand.’

            ‘So, ninety percent of what we do is “make-it-look-like-an-accident” work. And the risk is that if we do too good a job, the customer won’t pay, because it looks like an accident. But if we know where and when the “accident” is going to happen and collect the proof that it wasn’t an accident at all, we’re protected.’

            ‘Does the freelancer know we’re taking photos?’

            ‘Usually not the first time.’

            Freddie didn’t say more, and I felt he was holding something back, or waiting for me to make a connection. But I was too full of questions to pause. ‘You said before that there were three tasks. What happens when a freelancer is removed from the register?’

            ‘Good question.’ Freddie smiled. ‘Sometimes, a job doesn’t go according to plan and there is a confidentiality risk. Or occasionally we get jobs that come under the heading of “no loose ends,” and those have a premium cost to the customer because the freelancer is “retired” at the end of the contract. When that happens, we invite the freelancer into the office here for a debriefing, and that’s what we use the warehouse area for.’

            ‘Do you…Are you the one who actually…?’ I wasn’t sure how to finish the sentence.

            ‘Oh yes, but it’s quite safe. There’s a sniper gallery upstairs at the back and one of us just leads the freelancer through and into the line of fire. The job’s done in seconds.’

            ‘Right. I see.’ I took a mouthful of the now-cold coffee.

            ‘Are you okay with that? Our research showed that your late father was an undertaker, so we thought you’d probably not baulk at the sight of death.’

            ‘I’ve never thought about it before.’ I thought about it for a moment then shrugged. ‘No. I don’t seem to have any emotions about it at all.’

            ‘Good. How do you feel about being the one taking pictures of victims? Could you manage it?’

            I leaned back in my chair. ‘You’ve shared all this information with me and if I had a problem with it, I assume your next task would be to lead me out to the warehouse where, am I right in thinking, Madgie is sitting up in the sniper gallery?’

            Freddie laughed and applauded. ‘You’re the first to ever realise it. I think you’ll fit in well here. If you’re still interested, that is.’

            ‘I have two questions.’

            ‘Fire away.’

            ‘First, what happened to my predecessor?’

‘Fair question. He retired and moved to Southend. He wasn’t “retired.” I can give you his phone number if you like. What’s the other question?’

‘Will I get to be the one in the sniper gallery?’

            ‘We know you won the County Championships at clay pigeon shooting for the last six years. We thought that side of the work might interest you, though you didn’t mention it on your application form.’

            I shrugged. ‘I didn’t know it was relevant.’

            ‘Transferable skills,’ said Freddie. ‘We like those.’ He pushed an intercom button on the wall that I hadn’t noticed before. ‘Madgie, come down and meet our new team member, Winston.’

Published by Bristol Noir - February 2024

https://www.bristolnoir.co.uk/working-for-the-mob-by-angela-fitzpatrick/