Brass Monkey Business

The smell of burnt coffee and yesterday's chip fat clung to Derek Kapoor's jacket as he stood outside the Brighton Pier, squinting through his horn-rimmed glasses at his phone. The dating app—RishtaRank, created by some genius in Bangalore who'd applied Google's PageRank algorithm to his grandmother's matchmaking network—showed he was in the right place at the right time. His best mate Charlie had insisted: "Stop overthinking everything, Derek. Just turn up for once. Your mum will be over the moon that you're finally using proper technology."

Derek—though his mum still called him Deepak when she was particularly exasperated—had been skeptical about an app that ranked romantic prospects based on how often extended families mentioned them in WhatsApp groups. But the testimonials were remarkable: "My nani's best friend's daughter found love through three degrees of separation and favorable auntie reviews."

A woman approached, designer handbag clutched like a weapon, heels clicking against the wet pavement with military precision. Mid-thirties, the kind of crisp efficiency that screamed corporate boardroom. Her pronunciation was flawlessly BBC English, perhaps a fraction too perfect.

"Lovely weather for surveillance," she said, then caught herself. "I mean, for... meeting new people."

Derek's heart hammered. She'd said surveillance. This was definitely more adventurous than his usual dating experience, which typically involved apologizing for spilling wine before the starter arrived.

"Indeed," he replied, attempting confidence. "Though I should mention upfront—I've never done anything quite like this before."

Penelope Marsh-Wigglesworth studied the nervous man before her. Her assistant Emma had sworn the posting would attract "discreet professionals," but this rumpled academic looked like he'd rather be marking essays than conducting surveillance. There was something familiar about his features, the way he held himself—a careful politeness that reminded her of family gatherings she'd spent years avoiding. Still, after three private investigators had turned out to be working for Nigel, amateur enthusiasm might be exactly what she needed.

"First time?" she asked. "Well, everyone starts somewhere. The important thing is you're here."

Derek nodded eagerly. "My friend said I needed to be more decisive. Take chances. Live a little. Stop letting other people make all the important decisions."

The last phrase carried a weight that suggested family expectations rather than mere friendship advice. Penelope felt an unexpected flicker of recognition—she knew that particular burden.

"Your friend sounds wise." Penelope felt a flicker of hope. Someone who took direction well, didn't ask too many questions. Perfect for her needs. "Shall we walk? I find movement helps with... orientation."

They strolled toward the seafront, past shuttered arcades and cafés preparing for another day of disappointed tourists. The October wind whipped off the Channel, carrying the scent of seaweed and distant rain. Derek kept stealing glances at her profile, marveling at how put-together she seemed. Even her anxiety looked expensive, like she'd purchased it from Harrods' emotional distress department.

"I should probably warn you," Penelope said carefully, "this involves watching someone who might not appreciate the attention."

Derek's pulse quickened. Role-playing. He'd read about this sort of thing online but never imagined he'd actually encounter it. "Watching people can be... educational."

"Precisely. Though we'll need to be extremely discreet. Professional consequences if we're spotted." Her voice carried the slight stiffness of someone who'd worked hard to eliminate any trace of accent. "I can't afford another failure."

"Right. Professional." Derek tried to look worldly. "I imagine there are... protocols for this sort of thing?"

Penelope brightened. Finally, someone who understood the gravity of the situation. "Oh yes. Chain of evidence, photographic documentation, maintaining proper distance. You seem to grasp the fundamentals."

They'd reached the car park where Penelope's silver Jaguar sat gleaming between a rusty Transit van and a mobility scooter with a flat tire. Derek whistled appreciatively.

"Nice ride. Very... inconspicuous."

"One tries to blend in," Penelope said dryly, unlocking the doors with a soft chirp. The interior smelled of leather polish and that particular expensive perfume that seemed to come standard with executive success. "The subject frequents the marina district. High-end establishments, private clubs. Places where discretion is paramount and everyone pretends not to notice what's happening at the next table."

Derek slid into the passenger seat, inhaling the scent of affluent anxiety. This was definitely the most sophisticated date he'd ever been on. "And we're just... observing?"

"Documenting patterns. Recording evidence. Building a comprehensive picture of his activities." Penelope started the engine, then turned to face him. "There's something else you should know. My previous... associates turned out to be compromised. Working for the opposition, as it were."

Derek's imagination raced. Corporate espionage. Industrial secrets. His date was clearly some sort of business intelligence professional, and she was trusting him with sensitive information. Either that, or RishtaRank's algorithm had seriously misread someone's WhatsApp history.

"Your secret's safe with me," he said solemnly.

"I should ruddy well think so," Penelope muttered, pulling into traffic with the contained aggression of someone who'd learned to drive in central London.

They drove through Brighton's narrow streets in companionable silence, each lost in their own assumptions. Derek wondered what sort of corporate malfeasance they were investigating, and whether his family would approve of dating someone this obviously successful—assuming this was actually a date. Penelope wondered if she'd finally found someone competent enough to document her husband's infidelity without being bought off by Nigel's increasingly expensive solicitors.

"There," Penelope said, pointing toward an upscale bistro with floor-to-ceiling windows that revealed the sort of clientele who discussed wine vintages with the seriousness other people reserved for medical diagnoses. "The Meridian. He meets his... associates there every Tuesday."

Derek peered through the windscreen at the well-dressed clientele visible through the glass. "Looks expensive."

"Money's no object when you're conducting business of this nature." Penelope's voice carried a bitterness that suggested personal experience with expensive betrayals.

They parked across the street, partially obscured by a delivery truck whose driver was arguing with someone on his phone about school pickup times and traffic wardens. Penelope reached into her handbag and produced a small camera with a telephoto lens that looked professional enough to make Derek feel instantly inadequate.

"You know how to use one of these?"

"Point and shoot, right?" Derek fumbled with the camera, accidentally triggering the flash. "Blast— sorry, I mean, drat. This is trickier than it looks."

"Here." Penelope leaned closer, her perfume mixing with the car's leather scent. "Switch this to manual focus, disable the flash completely. We can't have it going off when we need to be invisible."

Derek's hands trembled slightly as she guided his fingers to the correct settings, her patience reminding him unexpectedly of his sister teaching him to tie shoelaces twenty years ago. "Right. Invisible. Got it."

"More or less. Though timing is crucial. We need clear images of faces, activities, any... compromising behavior."

Derek adjusted the focus, studying the restaurant's interior through the viewfinder. The telephoto lens brought everything unnaturally close—he could see the condensation on wine glasses, the way conversations paused when mobile phones buzzed. "How long have you been tracking this person?"

"Months," Penelope said bitterly. "Ever since I realized the signs were all there. Late nights, mysterious phone calls, sudden interest in things that never mattered before. Fifteen years of marriage, and I'm only now seeing what was there all along."

"Classic pattern," Derek nodded sagely, though his only experience with surveillance came from watching too many detective shows. "They always think they're cleverer than they are."

"Exactly." Penelope felt a surge of gratitude. Finally, someone who understood. "The arrogance is what makes them vulnerable. He thinks because I'm..." She paused, catching herself before revealing too much. "Because I've always been accommodating, I'll never fight back."

A black BMW pulled up outside the Meridian with the sort of understated elegance that whispered rather than shouted about its price tag. Derek raised the camera instinctively as a silver-haired man in an expensive suit emerged from the driver's seat.

"Is that him?"

"That's him," Penelope confirmed, her voice tight with emotion that seemed to encompass more than simple marital disappointment.

Derek began taking photographs, capturing the man's face as he walked toward the restaurant entrance. Through the lens, he watched the subject greet another man with a handshake that lasted slightly too long, their conversation animated and intimate in the way that suggested either genuine friendship or mutually assured destruction.

"Definitely looks like they know each other well," Derek observed.

"Better than he knows his own wife, apparently," Penelope said quietly.

Derek lowered the camera, studying her profile. There was real pain there, beneath the corporate efficiency. This wasn't just business for her—it was deeply personal, wrapped up in layers of expectation and disappointment that felt familiar to anyone who'd ever struggled to meet family standards.

"I'm sorry," he said, and meant it. The camera suddenly felt heavier in his hands. "This must be incredibly difficult. Fifteen years... that's longer than most people keep the same job these days."

Penelope's carefully maintained composure wavered. "The worst part isn't the betrayal—it's realizing how blind I've been. All those business dinners I never questioned, weekend conferences that seemed to multiply exponentially. I prided myself on being analytical, methodical. Turns out I was just naive."

"You weren't naive," Derek said firmly. "You trusted someone you loved. That's not weakness—that's what normal people do in marriages."

She glanced at him, surprised by the conviction in his voice. "You sound like you speak from experience."

"Not marriage, no. But I've made my share of assumptions about people's motives. Usually because I wanted to believe the best of them." He adjusted the camera settings again, his movements more confident now. "Sometimes we see what we need to see until we can't anymore. Sometimes we become who other people need us to be until we forget who we actually are."

The last observation hung in the air between them, carrying more weight than either had intended. Penelope studied this earnest man who seemed to understand the particular exhaustion of living up to other people's expectations.

"The worst part," Penelope continued, "is wondering how many people knew. How many people were watching me play the dutiful wife while he was..."

"Building his double life," Derek finished gently.

They sat in silence for several minutes, watching the restaurant's windows. Derek found himself genuinely moved by her situation—this successful woman reduced to hiring strangers to document her husband's betrayal. There was something achingly familiar about the way she held herself, as if she'd spent years perfecting the art of appearing invulnerable.

"We'll get the evidence you need," he said firmly. "Whatever it takes."

Penelope felt something shift in her chest—a loosening of the tight control she'd maintained for months. "Thank you. I know this isn't exactly... conventional."

"Neither am I," Derek replied with a self-deprecating smile that transformed his entire face.

The restaurant door opened and the silver-haired man emerged, this time accompanied by two other men. All three walked with the casual confidence of people accustomed to getting their way, their conversation punctuated by gestures that suggested money changing hands or favors being called in.

"More associates?" Derek asked, raising the camera again.

"I don't recognize them," Penelope said, leaning forward. "But they look... serious. Professional in a way that has nothing to do with annual reports and quarterly projections."

Through the telephoto lens, Derek studied the three men as they stood beside the BMW. Their conversation appeared intense, hands gesturing sharply, faces grave. One of them kept glancing around the street as if checking for observers, his eyes scanning with the methodical precision of someone trained in counter-surveillance.

"They seem nervous about something," Derek murmured, continuing to take photographs.

"Nigel is always nervous these days. Jumpy. Paranoid. Says it's work stress, but this looks different."

"Maybe he suspects he's being watched."

The three men separated, Nigel getting into his BMW while the others walked toward a dark sedan parked further down the street. Derek kept photographing, though half his shots were either blurry or poorly framed—amateur hour, but he was learning. When both cars had disappeared around the corner, he lowered the camera with a mixture of pride and exhaustion.

"Excellent work," Penelope said, and Derek felt a warm flush of pride that reminded him why he'd always been a sucker for approval. "Though I suspect this is just the beginning."

"You think there's more to uncover?"

"Oh, I'm certain of it. The question is whether we're prepared for what we might find."

Derek studied her face, noting the combination of determination and apprehension in her expression. Whatever they'd stumbled into was bigger than either of them had anticipated, and somehow that made it more rather than less appealing.

"Are you having second thoughts?" he asked.

"No," Penelope said firmly. "No more second thoughts. No more half-measures. We see this through to the end."

Derek nodded, surprising himself with his resolve. "Together." The word felt strange in his mouth—when was the last time he'd committed to anything with such certainty?

"Together," she agreed, and for the first time in months, Penelope felt like she wasn't facing this alone.

As they prepared to leave, neither noticed the dark sedan that had been parked behind them throughout their surveillance, or the way its occupants reached for their phones the moment the Jaguar's engine started. They were too busy discovering that whatever this was—adventure, mission, elaborate first date orchestrated by algorithmic aunties—they didn't want it to end.

In the sedan, two men in expensive suits exchanged worried glances. One was reading what appeared to be a self-help book between surveillance duties.

"Definitely surveillance," the first man said into his phone. "Professional equipment, coordinated positioning. They got photographs of everyone."

"How professional are we talking?" came the voice on the other end.

"Hard to say. Could be police, could be corporate security, could be freelance investigators. But they knew exactly where to be and when. Very patient, very thorough."

"Crikey. Nigel said his divorce was amicable."

"Doesn't look amicable from where I'm sitting. What do you want us to do?"

There was a pause on the line. In the background, a child's voice could be heard calling for help with homework. "Hang on, love, Daddy's on the phone... Sorry, what were you saying?"

"The surveillance team. What's our next move?"

"Find out who they are. Find out what they know. And find out who they're working for."

"And then?"

Another pause. "Then we decide how much of a problem they're going to be. Crikey, I hope this doesn't drag on—I promised Sophie I'd help with her maths revision tonight."

The sedan pulled into traffic, maintaining a careful distance behind the silver Jaguar as it wound through Brighton's afternoon traffic. In the passenger seat, the second man opened a laptop and began running the license plate through various databases, his self-help book—"The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People"—bookmarked at a chapter on proactive problem-solving.

"Blimey. Nigel better have a proper explanation for this," he muttered, then glanced at his watch. "We need to wrap this up soon—school pickup is at half-three and Emma will absolutely lose her mind if I'm late again."

Meanwhile, in the Jaguar, Derek and Penelope drove in comfortable silence, each feeling they'd found exactly what they'd been looking for, neither realizing they'd also found far more trouble than either had bargained for.

The brass monkey business was about to get significantly more complicated.