In Stairwell Six, where the lingering scent of wet umbrellas and old concrete clung to the landings, the arrival of spring was unmistakable. The air remained crisp, but the evenings stretched longeras if daylight hesitated to leave.
The Harrisons trudged homefather, mother, and their teenage soneach juggling bags of groceries, the green stalks of spring onions poking out like unruly antennae. Droplets pooled by the door; someone had dashed inside without shaking off their umbrella.
Fresh notices plastered the doors and mailboxessheets printed from a home printer, the bold red letters screaming: “URGENT! Water meter replacements required by weeks end! Fines apply! Booking number below.” The damp air had already warped the paper, blurring the ink in places. Downstairs neighbour, Auntie Margaret, hovered by the lift, balancing a sack of potatoes while dialling the number.
“Theyre saying fines if we dont comply,” she fretted as the Harrisons passed. “The lad on the phone claimed its a special offerjust for our building. Dyou reckon its legit?”
The father shrugged.
“Bit sudden, isnt it? No warning from the council. No letters, no calls. And this special offersounds fishy.”
Over dinner, the conversation resumed. The son pulled another leaflet from his bagidentical, but folded and wedged into their doorframe. The mother turned it over, comparing the date on their last meter inspection.
“Our verifications not due for another year. Why the rush?” she murmured. “And whys no one heard of this company?”
The father frowned.
“Best ask round the neighbours. See who else got these. And who exactly these blokes are.”
By morning, the stairwell buzzed with voices. Arguments echoed from upper floors; by the rubbish chute, two women traded anxious whispers.
“They told me theyd cut the water off!” one hissed. “Ive got little ones!”
Thena knock. Two men in matching jackets, clutching briefcases, worked their way down the hall. One held a tablet; the other, a stack of forms.
“Evening, residents! Mandatory water meter upgradesby order! Miss your slot, and its fines from the council!”
His voice was slick, rehearsed. His partner rapped on the opposite doorsharp, impatient.
The Harrisons exchanged glances. The father peered through the peephole: no IDs, no uniforms. The mother whispered,
“Dont answer. Let them move on.”
The son glanced out the window. A plain van idled below, its driver scrolling on his phone. Rain glistened on the bonnet under the streetlights.
Minutes later, the men left wet footprints down Auntie Margarets welcome mat.
By evening, the building hummed like a hive. Some had booked slots; others rang the council, getting vague replies. The WhatsApp group erupted: *Are they legit? Why the hurry?* The Harrisons decided to ask the flat above.
“Their IDs looked dodgy,” the woman from Flat 17 admitted. “Just laminated paperno stamps. Asked for their licence, and they scarpered.”
The fathers jaw tightened.
“Tomorrow, we corner them. Demand proper paperwork. Ill call the council directly.”
The mother nodded. The son readied his phone to record.
Next morning, the “inspectors” returnedthree now, same jackets, same urgency. The father cracked the door, chain still latched.
“Show your credentials. Your licence. And the councils work order numberif this is official.”
The man faltered, fumbling for a sheet with some obscure logo. His mate avoided eye contact, thumbing his tablet.
“Were under contract to service this building”
“With who? Name your council contact. Give the job number.” Calm. Firm.
Stammering about fines, they floundered. The father dialled the council on speaker.
“Helloconfirm, please: have you sent contractors for meter replacements today?”
The answer was crisp: *No scheduled works. No authorised visitors.*
The men backpedalled*wrong address, mix-up*but the sons recording was already rolling.
Dusk fell fast. The stairwell dimmed, the wind rattling an unlatched window upstairs. Wet footprints trailed to the bins. Behind closed doors, neighbours murmured, unsettled.
The truth settled like a stone: a scam, dressed as bureaucracy. The solution was simplewarn the others, act together.
They gathered on the landingAuntie Margaret, the woman from 17, young mums, a bloke from the top floor. The air smelled of damp coats and fresh bakery. The son replayed the recording.
“Council confirmed: no works authorised,” the father said. “These lads are con artists. No licence, no paperwork.”
“I booked them!” cried the third-floor tenant, flushing. “They sounded so sure”
“Youre not the only one,” the mother said gently. “But real inspectors notify properly. In writing.”
The group erupted*What about fines? They took my details!* The father raised a hand.
“Key is: dont let them in tomorrow. Dont pay a penny. Demand IDs, call the council on the spot. Better yetdont answer.”
The son listed red flags: *Check your bills. Verify firms with the council. Fines need court ordersempty threats.*
“Lets draft a complaint to the council,” the mother suggested. “And pin a warning by the mailboxes.”
Nods all round. Someone produced a pen, a battered folder. As they crafted the notice, the mood shiftedunease giving way to stubborn unity. No one wanted to be fooled alone. Together, it felt lighter.
Outside, rain speckled the pavement; the van was gone.
The notice was blunt: *WARNINGscammers posing as meter inspectors. Council confirms NO authorised works. Do NOT engage.* They laminated it, taped it stoutly by the postboxes.
Nearly all signed the complaint. The third-floor tenant offered to hand-deliver it. Others promised to spread the word.
As they dispersed, the tension melted into wry relief. Someone joked,
“Ought to rename the group chat Scam Watch!”
The father grinned.
“Least now we know each others faces. Next meet-up wont just be for crises.”
By midnight, only forgotten umbrellas and a grocery bag remained downstairs. Behind doors, muted voices rehashed the night.
Morning brought swift change: the fraudulent notices vanished overnight. No “inspectors” returned. Just a crumpled leaflet by the bins, and tape residue on the door.
Neighbours exchanged grateful nods in the lift. Auntie Margaret brought the Harrisons mince pies”for saving me from my own daftness”while Flat 17 left a *Cheers!* note on their door.
The courtyard still gleamed from last nights rain, but the mess of panic had washed away with it.
On the landing, chatter resumedboasts about legit meter upgrades, jokes about “the phantom inspectors,” quiet pride in the newfound trust between flats.
The Harrisons reckoned the cost: a night of explaining, some bruised pride, a lesson in scepticism. But the stairwell now stood sharper-eyed, and a little less like strangers.
