CHAPTER 3
Tracey Shepherd sat alone behind the reception desk of Debita Debt Management, opening the mail. Blonde, petite, bustling, and prone to being a little overzealous in the make-up department, she sliced open the envelopes with her paper knife and unfolded the contents one by one, sorting the paper into distinct piles for distribution.
The quantity of physical mail was steadily reducing in volume, but there were a number of established clients who still preferred the old method. Wellingford Borough Council was one of them.
Her employer was retained under contract by Wellingford to collect council tax arrears and ultimately, if necessary, take action through the County Court for the recovery of unpaid tax. Wellingford was a “Caring, Sharing in the Community” borough and its chief executive felt it unseemly, or more likely politically imprudent, to be seen to be harassing its citizens, especially the poorer ones, for unpaid debt, so preferred to outsource the dirty work to a third party. The mailbag, slight though it was, usually contained one or two letters from Wellingford formally advising of another miscreant council taxpayer, and there was nothing different about today’s.
Except that today, one such letter had caught Tracey’s eye and she studied it intently, wishing it were not true. She hoped there had been an error, a case of mistaken identity, but there was no doubt. She looked up into space for a moment and bit her bottom lip, pondering the implications, until she was distracted by the appearance of Derek’s PA, Jane, passing through reception clutching a bundle of files.
“Jane?” she called out, and Jane turned and approached reception. Tracey handed over the letter. “I think Derek had better see this.” Jane scanned the letter briefly and looked back at Tracey with the same expression of concern.
“Oh dear. Okay, no problem,” she said before exiting reception through the glass double doors. Tracey sat back in her chair and sighed. She carried on with her work but within five minutes the reception phone rang. Internal call. Tracey pressed the button to answer.
“Yes, Derek?”
“Where is she?”
“She’s on lates. She’ll be in at 12.”
“Tell her I want to see her the moment she gets in.”
“Yes, Derek.”
Oh no. Tracey couldn’t help feeling guilty, somehow responsible for betraying her friend. But what could she have done?