Stone Cold Red Hot - [11]

“So Mrs Ibrahim’s on her own with the children then?”

“Yes. It’s not Mrs Ibrahim though, they have a different custom for names, she keeps her father’s names even though she’s married. All Somali’s have three names, the children will take two of their father’s names and be given a name too. So even they won’t be known as Ibrahim. It gets very complicated,” she smiled, “well, it does for us as you can imagine but the Somalis know exactly what’s what.” She checked the file. “She’s called Fatima Hassan Ahmed, so you can call her Mrs Ahmed or Fatima – that’s her given name. Now, there have been incidents at the weekends too and they seem to be increasing in frequency. We’d like you to start with a night this weekend, his shift is six to two, you could cover that. I’m hoping you’ll be able to get the general picture, maybe do another night if you need to. In addition to that I want you to be on call – we’ll ask Mr Poole, that’s the neighbour, to ring you if trouble starts. The Ibrahims don’t have a phone. Mr Poole has called the police for help in the past though he doesn’t want it broadcasting.”

“Do the Brennans and the Whittakers know?”

“Not sure, they may have their suspicions. However Mr Poole’s got a great deal of respect in the area, used to run the local Tenants group until a couple of years ago. If they go up against him there’ll be a lot of antagonism from other neighbours. He’s not such an easy target.”

I thought about the role Mandy wanted me to play. “I might be coming and going quite a bit and at odd times if I’m on call. I’ll need some cover to allow for that.”

The pair of us began to invent possibilities,

“District nurse?”

I shook my head. “Too risky, people might know who the nurses are and he’d have to play sick as well. If I was a relative why would I be at Mr Poole’s? Job interviews?”

“Training course?”

“They usually do accommodation. What about clearing my mother’s house out? Recent bereavement.”

“Why not stay there?”

“Sick aunt in hospital?”

“You could stay at her place,” she objected.

“No, she lives in a nursing home, but she’s gone into hospital for an operation or tests. She’s my mother’s sister, I’m the closest living relative – I can’t afford a B &B.”

There was a pause while we both considered any major flaws in this scenario. It sounded general enough to be plausible and I wouldn’t have to wear a uniform or gen up on any particular skills or knowledge. I would adopt some basic disguise though. Hulme was only a couple of miles north of my home in Withington and it was possible that in the future I’d run into someone who knew me from Mr Poole’s, or somebody who knew me would turn up unexpectedly in Hulme and blow my cover. It would be safer to preserve a different identity.

“That’ll do,” I said, “Mr Poole can be a relative on the other side of the family and I’m up from London.”

Mandy gave me Mr Poole’s address and phone number and pulled out a portable camcorder, tapes and spare battery from her drawer. It was a very compact model – ideal for spying. She took it out of the case and showed me the basics. She assured me it would record even in poor lighting unlike most models. I felt a little thrill at the prospect of doing the job.

“The most effective evidence,” she said, “is obviously where we can see who is doing what. Remember to always keep the date and timer on and, if you can, start with a general shot to establish the scene then use the zoom to pick out the faces of those present.”

“Just like they do in the movies,” I joked.

“If there’s any violence or the threat of any violence, ring the police immediately.” She packed away the equipment. “And keep me informed, it’s a nasty case and I’d like to see it resolved as soon as possible.”

I felt a mixture of excitement and apprehension about the task I’d been set but I had no premonition of how devastating it was going to be.

Chapter five

I made my way through town to a photocopy shop. They were still re-building the centre, three years after an IRA bomb had gutted the city. Boards sectioned off parts of Cross Street as construction continued on the new Marks and Spencer building. Traffic to and from Victoria Station had to go round by the Cathedral or up Shude Hill. I had three copies done of the photo of Jennifer Pickering and then I walked up to Piccadilly to catch the bus back.

There was more work going on around Piccadilly Gardens. Manchester was in a constant process of change. The flourishing music business and club culture had brought confidence and development to the area. The city was a major tourist destination now. I was standing within spitting distance of Chinatown with its magnificent Chinese arch and plethora of restaurants, of the thriving gay village, host to the largest gay Mardi Gras in Europe, of the huge Greater Manchester Exhibition Centre and the Bridgewater Hall home to the Halle orchestra. A short ride on the Metro Link would get me to Old Trafford cricket ground or Manchester United football club. Not that I’d ever been.

I spent the afternoon in the office, writing up notes and planning how I would use my time over the next few days. Roger Pickering had dropped off his letter for the powers that be at Keele and I wrote one of my own to go with it, outlining again that I wanted to have any forwarding address for Jennifer Pickering believed to have left her course in the autumn term 1976. If they didn’t have a record of that I asked whether they could give me details of Jennifer’s Halls of Residence address while she was at Keele? And could they provide any contact details for students there at the same time who might be able to assist me? I thought the latter was a long shot really and my hopes were resting on them coming up with the address that Jennifer had moved to. Then I’d take it from there.