An ordinary suburban street in Brentwood, Essex. In the distance, the sound of a power tool can be heard. I walk up the driveway, past a white van, and press the doorbell.
After some time, the door opens. Maureen, a striking lady in her sixties with a platinum bob and bubbly Essex accent, ushers me into the sitting room, and offers me a cup of tea. Her husband, James, a big, affable man, gets up from a floral armchair and shakes me genially by the hand. Maureen regards me coolly.
Jake Wallis-Simons Photo: Richard Gardner / Rex Features
James is a retired detective chief inspector, who once led a murder squad in north-east London. Maureen is her husband’s sidekick. In the spare room is a listening device disguised as a phone charger, and a pen that contains a camera. The anonymous-looking van outside turns out to be a surveillance vehicle, complete with a green jerry can in which to urinate. “Maureen thinks it’s disgusting,” says James, “but I like things the old fashioned way.”
