I picked up the sports bag which held the camcorder, my mobile phone and my handbag, got out of the car and locked it. There was a group of youths at the bottom of the close, clustered round a motorbike. They cast glances my way, one of them made a comment and there was a shout of laughter from the others and a medley of obscenities. I wondered whether my disguise was inciting any more interest than I would have done without it. I’d limited it to a few basic features – glasses with bright red frames, red lipstick, a lightweight grey wig and a stone-coloured mac. The glasses and wig came courtesy of my friend Diane who has a thing about trying out a new look every week or two and who lets me use her cast-offs when she goes off them. I can’t often use her clothes – Diane is a very big woman, she’s several sizes larger than me and makes most of her own stuff as the shops don’t cater to her size or her wacky tastes. The glasses were clear lenses (I ask you) so at least I could see through them without endangering anybody, the wig (grey? what possessed her to buy grey?) was light enough to bear wearing for a few hours without getting a headache though it did make me itch round the hairline and the coat was a bargain buy that I’ve never worn. I kept trying it on but it just wasn’t me.
With this costume my hope was that anyone who met me would only remember an older woman with red specs.
Mr Poole was a large, well-built man with a mane of silver-grey hair, jowelly cheeks, a bulbous nose. Behind tortoiseshell glasses I could see small brown eyes, above them eyebrows run wild. He wore dark trousers and shirt and an old-fashioned cable knit cardigan, the sort with leather buttons.
“Come in, come in,” he stood aside and waved me through. Once he’d shut the door he took a moment to look at me, made no comment on what he found then announced, “I’ll show you round, there’s three windows look across the street. This one,” he took me into the front room, “and two upstairs.”
“It’s very good of you to let me use the place.”
“Well, someone’s got to do something. It gets my goat, it really does, the way they behave. Barbaric. I’d say they was like animals but that would be an insult to the animals. Now, you can see through here.”
We moved into the bay window. I could see through the nets into the house opposite and it was a reasonable view but I was aware that this was Mr Poole’s living room and I would be shooting in the dark to avoid discovery. I thought I’d be better upstairs, a better chance to scan the street with less disruption for him.
