‘Rebecca, good morning!’ Jane says in a very upbeat tone.
‘Morning, Jane!’ I’m trying not to sound the most unprofessional sleepy woman that ever existed.
‘Have they accepted your requests yet?’ Jane asks, and then it dawns on me. No, it’s not déjà vu, not a dream and yes, it is happening again.
‘Sorry, Jane. I’ve not had a chance to check,’ I tell her while slowly placing a foot on the cold wooden floor, praying the bed doesn’t make creaking noises.
‘Oh. Oh, dear. Sorry, have I disturbed you?’ I wonder why she didn’t ask herself this question earlier, before picking up the phone at silly o’clock?
‘No, of course not. I’m just starting on some paperwork and you’re next on my list.’ Now I’m doing a cross between climbing out of bed and a limbo dance. My bed is far too creaky.
‘Oh lovely, so I’ll speak to you in an hour then?’
‘Not too sure what my diary is like. Have you got email so I can keep you updated that way?’ I’m praying she says yes and we can get over the silly ‘phoning me every ten minutes’ phase. That’s an exaggeration, but it’s how it feels.
‘We can’t do that. I’m not sure if my husband can check my emails or not.’
My heart sinks. ‘No problem, I’ll give you a call shortly. Someone’s just turned up, must go.’ Lying through my teeth. On the other hand if the kettle and toaster were real people needing my attention, it would be true. Either way, she’s off the phone and my morning coffee and toast ritual has commenced.
I wipe the sleep from my eyes, take the steaming coffee cup and walk towards the computer. It takes me ten minutes of staring mindlessly out of the window in front of my desk to waken up. It may not be the world’s greatest view I have before me – a generic suburban close on the outskirts of Manchester where my parents live that my brother calls ‘God’s Waiting Room’. Basically, all the residents are over the age of seventy and live in large, exceptionally well-kept houses. They have money and refuse to go into old folks’ homes. Their gardens are simply perfection and wouldn’t look out of place on an American sitcom.
BING BONG! Snap back to reality. The emails have started … Best get on with work.
I have a browse through Facebook and choose three of our fake profiles. One is a very attractive brunette lady in her mid-twenties and the pictures lifted from Google images look rather provocative. That will appeal to men. Another one is a business – I always wonder if people are more accepting of businesses because they look ‘proper’. The third is a man, again good-looking but not too good-looking. Women are scared of really good-looking men with perfect styling, so our guy looks down-to-earth. And then I wonder, since when did I become an expert in psychology?
Next I start adding people from Jane’s husband Tom’s friend list to my fake profiles, and lots more people as well to make it seem more authentic. I do the same with Muriel, the girl that Jane is suspicious of.
A couple of hours later, after catching up on the day’s events via email, text and phone calls, I check again. Lots of Tom’s friends have accepted our friend request, and so have Muriel’s. What kind of name is Muriel? After some very basic snooping through their profiles, and a few Internet data checks, basically using Google and the electoral roll, I know a little more about Tom and Muriel.
I highly doubt Tom was ever good-looking. He is overweight, by quite a bit, with a huge belly, a lot like Santa’s. His face is grey and gloomy, he has greying black hair and his smile is missing a few teeth. His nose is certainly crooked, and his eyes are almost black. He’s as far from good-looking as you can imagine. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder but surely no one ever accused him of it. Age: fifty-two.
Muriel. Well, she looks dirty! Not in an unclean way, but she looks as though she loves herself and will flaunt all she has got. Her profile picture, which Jane thought was ‘a sign’, shows her half-draped over a bed, sort of upside-down, with her fingers combing through her hair. Oh, and her ample chest accessories are on view, but not completely exposed. She’s got sandy hair, dark brown eyes and a slight tan. Either way, sad to say, she is good-looking. Dirty, but good-looking! Age: twenty-four.
So we have a good-looking twenty-four-year-old and a dreadful fifty-two-year-old, combined with a seemingly lunatic wife. There’s no way this can actually be happening, I sigh.
I click the exit button on the browser. It’s time to speak to my equipment suppliers and see what we can do in terms of other options for Jane. I can’t charge her a sheer fortune for surveillance when I’m 99 per cent sure this man isn’t having an affair with the fabulously dirty Muriel! Surely a girl like her wouldn’t take a second look at someone like him?
My equipment expert, Chai, is based in China. In the beginning I contacted lots of companies based in China, where all the best equipment comes from, but Chai seemed the best. He is truly an expert. He never gets tired of all my phone calls, asking about various bits of equipment and what would be most useful to us. He has great patience, which is what I need. I’ve always had a problem understanding accents, to my shame, so this stage of ordering products is always problematic for me. Chai understands me, but I still make the poor man repeat himself what seems like a million times. I already know the basic details of what I want for Jane’s job but I run it past Chai anyway.
First we discuss hacking Tom’s phone, which in reality is a lot less controversial than it sounds. ‘Hacking’ is basically a name for getting some software onto his phone, just like any other app you would use. We could send a link to our client, in this case Jane, who could then install it on his phone. After that we could get a copy of every text, phone call, photo, email, calendar entry and even his location from the phone. The problem with this plan is that by law the client must inform the person whose phone they’re hacking before they install it and get permission. Or, if they own the phone, they must prove it to us by showing us the receipt. Jane couldn’t convince me that she would be able to supply a receipt, or that she would tell him. So forget that option …
Computer hacking is exactly the same as phone hacking but for a computer. It carries the same problems with legality, so again not an option.
Chai and I have a chat about audio bugging. I honestly think this is the best option for Jane. She needs to know what’s happening in his workplace but can’t get in the building itself. If we somehow got an audio bug in there, we’d have no problems.
The other line starts to ring again, so I make my excuses to Chai and hang up.
‘There’s a stain on his trousers!’
‘Hi, Jane.’ No prizes for guessing this time.
‘There’s a stain on his trousers! It’s semen!’
Her voice gets more and more high-pitched every time I talk to her.
‘Do you know that for certain? Or is it a guess?’ I’m trying to be a calming influence.
‘Errrrr … well …’
Thought as much! ‘We have testing kits, if you want to check if it is semen. Although it depends how much it bothers you.’
‘Oh, it bothers me! I’m furious! This proves it!’ Yep, still ranting.
‘If the test is positive then you’ll have some proof, but it may not be semen and even if it is, it could have got there a different way.’ I really care about people, honestly I do, but this is a very big test of my patience. I want to shake her and tell her to get a grip. I thought I was psychotic when I was checking up on James but I certainly never went as far as to analyse odd stains on his clothing.
‘I’ll get the kit sent to you today, Jane. Try to stay calm until it gives you a result. It will tell you in the space of thirty minutes, so you don’t have to wait for ages. Do you think you