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though I believe Colin Whittaker is known to the police, he’s a member of some neo-Nazi group, he’s banned from football matches - that sort of scene. From what Mr Ibrahim tells me he wants them out and he’s making no bones about it.
    “Now we can see about re-housing the family but as you know we would prefer to tackle the issue of antisocial behaviour or racial harassment and deal with those responsible. For that we need firm evidence to enable the police to take those involved to court. That’s where you come in. We can give you a camcorder and one of the neighbours is prepared to let us use one of his rooms for surveillance. He’s told us a lot about what’s actually going on. I think he’d do it for us himself if we asked him but we need a professional job doing. You’ll have to sort out a cover story, visiting relative or some such.”
    My stomach missed a step. Surveillance is a mixture of dull and dangerous. But undercover work which I have done on occasion demands even more nerve and involves playing a part with enough aplomb to convince. Surveillance is covert; the main aim to observe without being noticed, ninety-nine percent of the time it’s a bore. Undercover work is both overt and covert, it involves being seen and being believed, fitting in or getting found out. The adrenalin never lets up, it can be terrifying. It is never boring.
    “You know I can’t do twenty-four hours?”
    “We can work round that. The harassment usually happens when Mr Ibrahim is at work, in the evening. He’s got a job at a take-away in Chorlton.”
    “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