13April
Flat6 in the Old Mill Court still smells of rainsoaked umbrellas and fresh concrete, especially now that spring has settled in. The air is cool, yet the evenings seem to stretch on, as if the day cannot be hurried away.
The Smith family my wife, our teenage son, and I were trudging home, each of us balancing a bag of groceries and a loaf of bread, the stems of green onions poking out of the tops. By the front door a small puddle gathered; someone had just entered without shaking the water from their umbrella.
Pinned to the door and the mailboxes were freshly printed notices on plain white sheets, the ink a vivid scarlet: Attention! Urgent replacement of water meters required by the end of the week. Penalties apply. Call the number below to book. The paper was already curling from the damp, the letters smudging at the edges. Downstairs, Aunt Lucy was waiting by the lift, fumbling with her phone while clutching a sack of potatoes.
They say therell be fines if we dont get it done, she whispered when we passed, looking worried. I called earlier; a young bloke said its a special programme just for our block. Maybe its time after all.
My husband shrugged. Seems rather sudden. No one warned us beforehand. The managing agent has been silent no letters, no calls. And programme? That sounds a bit too loud for me.
At dinner the conversation continued. My son produced another slip from his schoolbag identical to the first, folded in half and slipped into the door jamb. My wife turned the paper over, checking the date of the last meter inspection on the bill.
Were only due for a check in a year, she asked. Why the rush? And why does nobody here know this company?
I thought for a moment. We should ask the neighbours who got the same flyer. And find out what this service is supposed to be, why its being handed out everywhere.
The next morning the stairwell was livelier. Voices echoed up the landing someone arguing on the phone, a small crowd near the rubbish chute swapping the latest gossip. Two women from flat3 were voicing their concerns.
If they dont replace it, theyll cut off our water! one exclaimed, exasperated. I have little children!
Just then a knock sounded. Two men in identical jackets, briefcases at their sides, moved from door to door. One held a tablet, the other a stack of papers.
Good evening, residents! This is an urgent directive to replace water meters. Anyone whose inspection is overdue will face penalties from the managing agent! the taller man announced, his voice booming and a touch too syrupy. His companion jabbed at the opposite door, knocking with a sense of haste.
The Smiths exchanged glances. My husband peered through the peephole: unfamiliar faces, no badges, no identification. My wife whispered, Dont open yet. Let them move on.
My son shuffled to the window and saw a car with no markings parked in the courtyard; the driver was smoking and scrolling on his phone. The headlights reflected off the wet pavement, still glistening from the nights drizzle.
Within minutes the men moved on, leaving damp footprints on the carpet outside Aunt Lucys flat. A thin line of water traced down the runner by her door.
That evening the whole stairwell buzzed like a beehive. Some residents had already signed up for the replacement, others were calling the managing agent and receiving vague answers. In our family WhatsApp we debated whether to let these strangers in. Why such urgency? one neighbour asked. Do they even have proper licences? another replied.
MrsHarper from flat17 chimed in, Their ID was just a laminated piece of paper with no seal. I asked for a licence and they slipped away immediately.
The Smiths grew more wary. My husband suggested, Tomorrow well try to catch them again and demand all documentation. Ill also ring the managing agent directly.
My wife agreed, and my son promised to record the conversation on his phone.
The following morning the trio returned, still in matching jackets and carrying identical folders. They hurried up the stairs, knocking and urging residents to sign up on the spot.
I opened my door just a crack, chain pulled tight. Show me your documents. Give me your licence and the reference number from the managing agent, if this is a scheduled job, I said.
The first man fumbled through his papers, handing over a sheet with an unfamiliar logo. The second glanced at his tablet, avoiding my eyes.
Were contracted to service your building Heres the contract, he said.
What contract? With our managing agent? Give me the name of the responsible officer, the job reference and a telephone number, I asked calmly.
They exchanged nervous looks, muttering about urgency and fines. I then dialled the managing agent right there.
Hello, did you send anyone today to replace water meters? We have people knocking on doors, I asked.
The reply was clear: no planned works, no referrals, and that any legitimate technician would be notified in writing and sign a receipt with the residents signature.
The men tried to excuse themselves must have been a mixup, they stammered but my son had already hit record.
Dusk fell quickly, the stairwell dimming into halflight. A cold draft slipped through an open window, rattling the frames. Umbrellas and shoes piled by the entrance, a damp trail of boots leading toward the rubbish chute. Voices from behind the doors discussed what had just happened.
It became obvious: this was a scam masquerading as a mandatory meter replacement. The solution presented itself warn the others and act together.
Even as darkness settled, we didnt wait. I called Aunt Lucy, MrsHarper and a neighbour from the top floor. A few more people gathered, the scent of damp coats mingling with fresh bakery smells someone had just brought in a loaf. My son turned on the recorder, ready to share the audio with anyone who missed the meeting.
Listen, I began, showing the phone screen, the managing agent says theres no work scheduled. These people have no licence, no official request. Theyre fraudsters.
A neighbour from the third floor shouted, Id already signed up! and blushed. Her mother added, We got a call too, but a genuine company would have warned us in writing first.
The crowd murmured, some worrying about fines, others about the personal data theyd already handed over. I steadied them: Do not let anyone in tomorrow, and dont pay anything on the spot. If they return, demand proper paperwork and call the managing agent while theyre there. Best of all, keep the door shut.
My son displayed a checklist of what a real inspection looks like: dates on the bill, a verifiable company name, and the fact that any penalty must come from a court, not a knockonthedoor threat.
My wife suggested we draft a collective letter to the managing agent, so theyre aware of these visits and can warn the rest of us, she said. And well put up a notice on the ground floor for everyone.
Everyone nodded. Someone fetched a pen and an old folder, and we began typing the statement together. A genuine sense of unity grew no one wanted to be duped alone; together we felt stronger.
From the staircase window we could see the occasional passerby hurrying home under a light drizzle; the courtyard glistened with puddles under the street lamps.
Our notice read simply: Attention! Fraudulent individuals posing as meterreplacement technicians have been seen in this building. The managing agent confirms: no works are scheduled. Do not open the door to unknown persons! We laminated the paper and taped it securely to the postbox area.
Almost everyone signed the joint letter; the neighbour from the third floor volunteered to deliver it to the managing office the next morning. The rest promised to spread the word to anyone away on holiday or on shift.
When the residents dispersed back to their flats, the atmosphere had shifted from suspicion to a lively, almost cheerful resolve. One joked, Now no one will ever pull the wool over our eyes again! Lets rename the WhatsApp group AntiScam Squad!
I smiled. The key takeaway is clear: knowing each others faces and standing together removes the power of the conartist. Tomorrow, if anything, well meet any challenge with eyes wide open.
