The Real Lady Detective Agency: A True Story. Rebecca Jane

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      Mission Impossible ringtone sounds. It’s 11pm! Who the heck could it be? I reach over to the bedside table and look at the flashing bright blue screen. Jane’s number is showing up! Oh dear …

      ‘Hello?’ I answer.

      ‘Hi Rebecca, it’s Jane.’

      ‘Hi, Jane.’ Trying not to sound too unimpressed that she is calling just as I am dropping off to sleep. We had advertised that we were open for business and accessible twenty-four hours a day, so this was going to be the downside. Maybe we’ll have to revisit that idea in the business plan.

      ‘I’m so sorry to call you this late, but I needed to tell you something,’ she begins in a rushed manner.

      ‘Of course, it’s no problem,’ I lie.

      ‘You know Muriel, that girl I was telling you about? The one people are suspicious of? Well, she’s just changed her profile picture.’

      ‘What do you mean by “her profile picture”?’

      ‘You know, on Facebook. Did I not tell you she was on Facebook?’

      ‘Er, no. I don’t think so.’

      ‘Well, she is. I don’t have her as a friend, but I can see lots of things she puts up. She’s changed her profile picture, and I’m sure she’s trying to tell me something.’

      I want to scream! I really want to help Jane, but she’s making it very difficult. Is she honestly trying to tell me that some girl she doesn’t know, who works with her husband, about whom there have been a few rumours, has changed her profile picture to send her a sign? Really? How can I possibly work for this woman? I can’t take money from the mentally insane! Sorry … I’m no psychiatrist so I can’t diagnose that officially, but from what I can tell, the woman is about ten sandwiches short of a picnic!

      ‘I really don’t think it’s a sign. People change their profile pictures a lot. It’s very common,’ I tell her, trying my hardest not to be irritated or annoyed.

      ‘But I’ve never changed mine in the whole time I’ve been on Facebook,’ she says, sounding genuinely bemused by the situation.

      ‘What I can do is add Muriel and your husband to one of our fake Facebook profiles. We use them to monitor people, for lots of reasons. I’ll have a look around both of their pages and see what is on there. How’s about that?’ It seems the best solution to get her off the phone.

      ‘Oooo, that sounds like a very good idea.’ Yay! She’s happy!

      ‘Excellent, I’ll sort it out in the morning. Don’t worry – I won’t charge you if I find anything. We’ll just see what comes up.’

      ‘Lovely. Oh, thank you so much. I’ll speak to you tomorrow, yes?’

      A momentary feeling of dread comes over me. Answering yes to this question guarantees we’ll have further contact and I’ll have to talk about this daft situation some more.

      ‘Of course, speak then.’ Damn it! I hang up the phone and write on the notepad next to the bedside table: Befriend Jane’s husband on Facebook!

      I roll over, turn out the light and I’m asleep in five minutes.

      I’m in my own little dream world, walking along a white beach. Paris is dancing around in the shallow water at my side, giggling as she always does. Waves are lapping the pure white sand, and a fabulous cool breeze is blowing in our faces. The sun is beating down rays on to the shore, and I’ve never felt more relaxed …

      ‘DUN … DUN … DER DE … DUN … DUN … DER DE … DE DER DERRR … DE DER DERRR … DE DER DERRR… DE DE …’

      I sit bolt upright in bed! Mission Impossible is on again! I glance quickly at the alarm clock to see it’s 9am. I can’t have heard my wake-up call at 7.30am, and Mum and Dad have taken Paris to playschool today so the house is quiet. I’m scrabbling towards the phone, exactly the same as last night. Funnily enough it’s Jane’s number flashing up. Now I’m thinking it’s either déjà vu and I dreamt our conversation last night, or it’s happening again …

      ‘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.

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