Liar Liar

77

DC Lucas pulled up Google and typed in ‘Kardashian’. Immediately, dozens of links offered themselves, an endless array of portals inviting further dissection of the celebrity family. Lucas didn’t really do reality TV, nor was she a big Kanye West fan, but she thought this was a decent cover. She was dressed in casual clothes, hair down and untethered – she could pass as a bored, lonely twenty-something with nothing to do but stalk the rich and famous.

She had chosen her position in the café carefully. In the reflection of her screen, she could see Richard Ford at his terminal, tapping away intently. He had been here for a couple of hours now. Lucas, McAndrew and Edwards were in charge of surveillance and had done a decent job so far, dovetailing neatly as they rotated to avoid detection. Shapiro had dropped him off near his home in Midanbury, but as Ford turned the corner to his road, it became clear that going home was not a viable option. The police forensics team had departed, but a small knot of journalists were trawling the street, tapping up neighbours and searching for dirt – sent no doubt by Emilia Garanita, who had aggressively doorstepped Ford as he’d left Southampton Central earlier. Ford wisely thought better of another confrontation with the press and turned on his heel, walking straight past McAndrew, who carried off her role well, seeming to struggle with heavy Lidl bags which were in fact full of empty cereal packets.

Ford didn’t seem to smell a rat and hurried away, ending up at Al’s Internet Shack ten minutes later. He had been holed up here ever since, barely moving from his seat. What was he up to? Why was he typing so furiously? What was he planning?

Lucas had been tempted on more than one occasion to get up and pass behind him. She couldn’t see his screen from her seated position – he had chosen a terminal in the far corner of the room – and would only be able to do so by inventing an excuse to pass by. But there was no toilet here, no drinks machine, nothing that could legitimately take her in his direction. She had considered talking to him – asking him for a pen – but had chickened out. If there was any hint in her manner that she was not what she seemed, if she gave herself away by even the briefest of glances at his screen, then she would have blown their cover. They had all worked too hard and too well for her to allow that to happen and, besides, she wouldn’t fancy facing DI Grace to explain that, so she stayed where she was, scrolling through yet more pictures of Kim Kardashian’s backside, wondering to herself what was going through the mind of Richard Ford.