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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.
    After a top-up of caffeine I rang and introduced myself to Mr Poole, thanked him for his offer, and asked if I could come to his house that Friday evening to start my surveillance.
    “I’ll pretend to be a distant relative,” I said, “my aunt’s in Wythenshawe hospital having tests and I’m visiting from London.”
    “If anyone asks,” he said, “I’ll tell them you’re one of Joan’s