STAKEOUT

by Richard Banks             

  

On-street surveillance isn’t everybody’s cup of tea. Usually, it’s a parked car job, a building to be watched, people in, people out, everyone, save the postman, to be photographed and logged on audio.

         Easy peasy you’re thinking, and usually, it is. Stay unnoticed and the only problem you have is in staying awake. Get rumbled and you had better drive off quick before someone decides to pay you a visit and lay one on you. It’s happened, so, you’re nothing less than sensible. The car you use is bog standard, nothing that stands out, the doors stay locked, you don’t get out, every few hours you park up somewhere new, never too close to the target, but always close enough to see.

         Do all that and you stay safe and get paid, cash in hand for every hour worked. The real skill is when you don’t have the car. Some streets don’t allow parking during the day, some never, so you have to find another way. If there’s a cafe or pub with good sightlines you use that; nice and cosy especially when the weather’s rough, but you don’t get paid expenses so every pint and sandwich is down to you.

         Sometimes the only way you can do the job is on foot in clear view of whoever you’re watching. That can be a real game of cat and mouse, and as often as not you’re the mouse so you had better be good at what you do. The trick is to blend in, be one of the matchstick men, a figure so familiar he attracts zero attention, a usual sort of man, doing whatever usual men do in that particular street.

         Today I’m on a domestic. The Client’s checking-up on his wife of only six months. He’s abroad on business, wants to know who she’s letting in while he’s away. So far it’s no one except a woman old enough to be her mother, which is good news all round and a quiet life for me. Nevertheless, I’m not taking any chances. Today I’m a hoodie, a familiar sight around here. Most of them are unemployed layabouts with nothing to do but kill time. So, I stood in a bus shelter. Waiting for a bus is not going to attract much attention, especially as some of the routes only come by once or twice an hour. Even if I am noticed no one gets a clear view of my face which means I can come back later and be someone else.  

         The woman comes to the window and peers out. A rain check, or is she expecting company? Apparently neither, she sprays the window with an aerosol and wipes it clean with a cloth. Is this what it seems or is she signaling that the coast is clear? If it’s a ruse then she’s expecting a visit from someone down here near to where I’m standing. A young guy in a suit crosses the road and turns left towards the house. I take a picture on my mobile and ready myself to get another as he goes inside, but he walks past the house and keeps going. And because I’m looking at him I nearly miss the guy who’s coming along behind. He’s up the steps to the front door before I know he’s there. The woman answers the door and he’s halfway through before I get a single shot of her face and the back of his head. This isn’t good, but it’s not a disaster. He has to come out at some point and that’s when I’ll get him full-on.

         Right now I could do with a camera that takes pictures through walls. Second best would be a listening bug but that’s a big bucks job, and anyway it’s against the law. As the client on this job is paying standard rate all he gets to know is who goes in and who goes out, and that doesn’t stretch to names and addresses, only what they look like and how long they stay which is why I need to keep alert and take some decent pictures when the guy steps out.

         Sometimes you get lucky and see something you’re not meant to, a kiss, an embrace, viewed through a window or the front door. No one should be that careless, but it happens. In half an hour it will be getting dark, room lights on and curtains pulled. For a few seconds, rooms will glow with light like they’re a West End stage. Primetime for a snap or two.

         I’m guessing that the first curtain to be drawn will be in the house I’m watching and sure enough as day fades the downstairs lights come on and Mrs G appears at the window looking out. Is she looking at me? something’s caught her eye. She half turns towards the man who’s now in his shirt sleeves. He comes forward, stands almost behind her and peers over her shoulder. A bus pulls up at the stop, blocking my view, blocking theirs. By the time it pulls away the curtain is drawn but I have a photo of them together, a single frame followed by three of the bus.

         There is a single shadow on the curtain, the two of them either side of a thin sliver of bright light where the curtains don’t quite meet. They are still looking. If the man comes out and chases after me there will be time for one last snap before I leg it down the back doubles. The shadow disappears, but the door stays shut.

         All’s well and my stint’s nearly over. In twenty-five minutes when the parking ban ends my replacement will arrive in a black Polo and park up outside the Factory Shop. That done I will get on a 21 bus and head back home. Monique, my girlfriend, is cooking tonight, something special, she says. It’s our first year anniversary. It’s going to be a romantic evening, just the two of us, with a big bash on Saturday for friends and family. She tells me she has a new dress, and I can’t wait to see it on, and off.

         Life’s good, and then suddenly, it ain’t; a police car pulls up at the bus stop. The copper inside winds down the window and tells me to get in the back. It’s PC Greenhough. This is not the first time he’s done this. It’s harassment of course. OK, so what I’m doing isn’t strictly legit but there’s no way he’s going to bring charges against me. He’s got too much else to do, so he gives me what he says is an informal warning, that way he doesn’t have to fill out a hundred and one forms. But next time, he tells me, it will be different.

         “OK, OK,” I say, “there won’t be a next time”. What I mean is that from now on I’ll only do jobs off his patch. We drive on. Where we are going I don’t know but he|’s not going to tell me, so I don’t ask. Anyway, there’s something else I need to know, something that will almost certainly be relevant to the case.

         “Who told you what I was up to? Mrs G, the man?” If it was them, it stands to reason they have nothing to hide from Mr G or anyone else. But if it’s not them, then who?

         PC Greenhough stops the car at a traffic light. “Mr Adams,” he says, “who else?”

         I say I don’t know anyone of that name. “Is he sure?”

         He says he is. The lights change. He turns left into a dimly lit side road, and right onto the gravel driveway of a large house. There’s something familiar about this place, something I should be remembering, but don’t.

         PC Greenhough turns off the engine and gets out of the car. He tells me to do the same and walks me up to the front door. He’s about to ring the bell, but there’s no need. Our arrival has been spotted from within and the door is opened by a large man in a crumpled, grey suit. He looks daggers at me while talking deferentially to PC Greenhough. He says he’s sorry, so sorry to have involved the police again. He hopes I haven’t got into any trouble.

         PC Greenhough says, “no. Just the usual thing, looking in people’s windows and taking photographs. No one’s complained.”

         The man looks relieved, thinks I may not have been taking my medication. Even under supervision it is not always possible, he says, to be sure that it has been swallowed and properly ingested.

         I’m taken into the day room and sat down in my chair. Molly, who I call Monique, sits on her chair, staring vacantly at the TV unaware that I am back. A nurse is preparing to give me an injection. This is not how life should be.

 

 Copyright Richard Banks