In flat six of the old tenstorey block on the edge of a London suburb, the scent of damp umbrellas and fresh concrete lingered on the landing, making spring feel especially sharp. The air was cool, yet the evenings seemed to cling to the light as if the day was in no hurry to leave.
The Thompson family was coming home: father, mother and their teenage son. Each carried a bag of veg and a loaf of bread, the green stalks of spring onions poking out of the tops. Water dripped from the front door someone had just stepped in without shaking off their umbrella.
Pinned to the doors and the communal letterboxes were fresh notices, printed on a home printer. In bold scarlet letters they read: Attention! Immediate watermeter replacement required! Must be completed by the end of the week! Fines apply! Phone to book see below. The paper was already curling in the damp, the ink smudging at the edges. On the ground floor, Aunt Lucy, the neighbour down the hall, stood by the lift, trying to dial a number while clutching a sack of potatoes in her other hand.
They say well be fined if we dont change them, she told us, worry lines deepening as we passed. I called earlier a young bloke said its a special promotion just for our block. Maybe its time.
Dad shrugged. Sounds urgent, but no one warned us ahead of time. The management company hasnt sent any letters or made any calls. And a promotion? That sounds a bit too loud for them.
Later, at dinner, our son pulled another slip from his schoolbag identical to the first, folded in half and slipped into the door frame. Mum turned the paper over, eyes landing on the date of the last meter test shown on the bill.
Were only due for a check in a year, she asked. Why the rush? And why does none of us know this company?
Dad thought a moment. We should ask the neighbours who got the same flyer. And find out what this service is why theyre handing them out everywhere?
The next morning the stairwell buzzed with voices. From higher up, a heated phone argument drifted down; on the landing by the bins, two women from flat three were sharing the latest gossip.
If we dont replace them, theyll cut the water off! one swore. Ive got young children!
Just then a knock echoed through the hall. Two men in identical jackets, briefcases at their sides, moved from flat to flat. One held a tablet, the other a stack of papers.
Good evening, residents! This is an urgent watermeter replacement notice! Anyone whose meter is overdue will face a fine from the managing agent! the taller man boomed, his voice bright but oversweet. The second man hurried to the opposite door, pounding persistently as if trying to get through as many flats as possible in a short time.
The Thompsons exchanged looks. Dad peered through the peephole: unfamiliar faces, no badges, no ID. Mum whispered, Dont open. Let them move on.
Our son slipped to the window and saw a car parked in the courtyard with no markings. The driver was smoking, eyes glued to his phone. The hood reflected street lamps and the wet asphalt from the recent rain.
Within minutes the two men were on the next landing, leaving wet footprints on the carpet. A trickle of water ran down the runner outside Aunt Lucys door.
By evening the whole stairwell was humming like a beehive. Some residents had already signed up for the replacement, others were on the phone with the management company receiving vague answers. In the buildings WhatsApp group the question kept popping up: Should we let these people in? Why the hurry? A neighbour from flat17 chimed in, Their ID looked odd just a laminated sheet with no stamp. I asked for a licence and they hurried away.
Dad grew more wary. Tomorrow well try to catch them again and demand proper paperwork. Ill also call the management directly. Mum agreed, and our son promised to record the conversation on his phone.
The following morning the trio returned, still in the same jackets and with identical folders. They swept the stairwell, knocking on doors, urging residents to sign up immediately.
Dad opened his door halfway, a chain taut. Show us your documents. I want to see your licence and the reference number from the management company if this is a scheduled job.
One of the men fumbled through his papers, pulling out a sheet with an unfamiliar logo and thrusting it through the gap. The other stared at his tablet, scrolling.
Were contracted to service this building Heres the contract the first said.
What contract? With our managing agent? Give us the name of the responsible person, the job number and a dispatchers phone, Dad replied calmly.
The men exchanged glances, mumbling about urgency and penalties. Dad then dialed the management office right there.
Hello, could you confirm whether you sent out service staff today for meter replacements? We have strangers roaming the flats, he asked.
The voice on the other end was clear: no scheduled work had been planned, no staff had been dispatched, and any legitimate contractor would always give prior written notice and obtain the residents signatures.
The men stammered, claiming a mixup, but Dad had already recorded the call on his sons phone.
Night fell quickly, casting a halfdark gloom over the stairwell. A draft slipped in through an open window, chilling the hallway where umbrellas and shoes piled up near the front door, a wet trail leading to the bins. Voices from behind doors discussed the incident, nerves still raw.
The climax came almost mundanely: the Thompsons finally saw the whole picture a fraud scheme dressed up as a mandatory meter swap. The solution was obvious: warn the others and act together.
The hall was growing dark, but they didnt wait. Dad called Aunt Lucy, the flat17 neighbour, and two others from the top floor. A handful of mothers with kids joined them on the landing, where the air smelled of damp coats and fresh pastry someone had just brought a loaf from the bakery. Son switched on the recorder, ready to share the audio with anyone who couldnt make it.
Listen up, Dad began, holding up his phone. The management company says no work is planned. These men are impostors no licence, no job number. Theyre scammers.
I already signed up! shouted a thirdfloor neighbour, blushing. They sounded so confident.
Youre not alone, her mother added. We got calls too, but a genuine notice would have come in writing from the management first.
The chat buzzed as people asked about fines, worried about the personal data theyd already handed over. Dad steadied the crowd: The key is: dont let anyone in tomorrow and dont pay on the spot. If they return, demand proper documents and ring the management on the spot. Better yet, keep the door shut.
Son displayed a sheet outlining how real inspections work: dates appear on the bill, the contractor can be verified via the management office, and any fine without a court order is just scaretactics.
Lets draft a collective letter to the managing agent, so they know these people turned up and can alert the rest of us, Mum suggested. Well also put a notice up on the ground floor.
Everyone nodded. Someone fetched a pen and an old folder, and as they typed the letter, a sense of solidarity settled over the stairwell suddenly it felt less like a lonely battle and more like a neighbourhood standing together.
Through the window, a few passersby hurried home under a drizzle, the courtyard glistening under streetlights.
The notice they produced was simple: Attention! Fraudulent individuals posing as service technicians have been seen in the building. The managing agent confirms no meter replacements are scheduled. Do not open the door to unknown persons. The paper was tucked into a waterproof sleeve and taped securely above the letterboxes.
Almost everyone present signed the statement; the thirdfloor neighbour volunteered to deliver it to the management office the next morning. Others promised to spread the word to neighbours on holiday or staying with relatives.
As residents drifted back to their flats, the atmosphere shifted from suspicion to purposeful chatter and even a few laughs. Now no one can pull the rug out from under us! someone joked, We should rename the WhatsApp group AntiScam Squad.
Dad smiled. At least now we know each others faces. Next time well meet over something less stressful.
Late that night only a couple of umbrellas and a forgotten grocery bag remained by the entrance. The landing fell quiet; muffled voices from behind doors talked about the days events or phoned relatives.
Come morning, the fraudulent flyer had vanished from every door and mailbox as swiftly as it had appeared. No service technicians showed up again, and a janitor later found a crumpled redlettered flyer tucked under a shrub, its tape halfpeeled.
Neighbours gathered by the lift, exchanging grateful smiles. Everyone now knew a little more about their rights and the tricks of strangers. Aunt Lucy brought the Thompsons a batch of homemade scones for saving us from foolishness, and the topfloor neighbour left a thankyou note on their door.
The courtyard was still wet from the nights rain, but the last drops were drying in the early sun.
On the landing, chatter resumed: a resident bragged about a genuine meter installed a year ago, another cracked a joke about the service men, and others simply enjoyed the newfound trust among neighbours.
The Thompsons realised the price of victory: an evening spent explaining, paperwork, a few embarrassed moments, and a temporary loss of faith in doortodoor notices. Yet the whole block was now more vigilant about strangers and a little closer to each other.
