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 street, it became clear that going home was not a viable option. The police forensics team had departed, but asmall knot of journalists were trawling the street, tapping up neighbors 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, 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.
78
Blog post by firstpersonsingular
Thursday, 10 December, 21.00
When people come to judge me, they will see that none of this is my fault. Some people have addictive personalities. If you’ve experienced that sense of compulsion, you’ll know what I’m talking about. I’m not in control of this thing anymore.
Just stop.
Well, I would, but that would hardly be fair. Who would I stopfor? There’s no one out there who gives a shit, and now that I’m on the side of the angels, why should I stop? Too much has already been done and the road ahead is long. There is so much more to do. It makes me feel funny just thinking about it.
More boots on the street. As if that can stop this thing. It just gives me more puppets to play with. Do you ever step outsideyourself and look down? I do all the time. What do I see? Ants, loads of tiny little ants, scurrying around, crawling all over each other. Panic, panic, panic. And what do you do with ants? You tread on them. Tread on them until they don’t move anymore.
I read an e-book recently calledFootprints in History. By an American dude who took out his entire class with a MAC-10. He was a smart guy with a bitch of a mother and a dad who liked to hold his son’s head to the stove. They told him he was a worm, a germ, a piece of shit who should never have existed. But he did more than any of them. He did something, then wrote a book about it. He’s going to be as famous as Hitler or Jeffrey Dahmer.
I don’t have a book in me, not got the patience. And my hands get tired with all the typing. Perhaps I should get a speech recognition program??? I would but I can’t say out loud what I’m thinking. I’d sayLOLif it wasn’t so dated. Anyway, I’m rambling now, so I’ll sign off. You can talk all you want, but it’s actions that count and I can’t sit here gossiping all day.
I have work to do.
79
“So, what’s she like?”
“Strange.”
“Strange good or strange bad?”
Jonathan Gardam sat back in his chair and considered Sarah’s question. They had just finished a late dinner—an exquisitely prepared Dover sole—and were now working their way through what remained of the wine. This was their customary end-of-the-day routine—they weren’t great box set people, nor were they devotees of Facebook. They liked to sit and talk.
“Good mostly. She’s very talented. Very committed and the most fearless officer I’ve met.”
“Probably because she doesn’t have a family to go home to.”
“Perhaps, but, whatever, it works.”
“So why do you say she’s strange?”
“Because she’s so hard to read. She’s a great team leader, good atinspiring the troops, but she’s determined to keep everyone at arm’s length.”
“Some people are like that,” Sarah said, shrugging.
“But how does she do it? How does she take the hits and then go back to an empty flat?”
“That’s for her to know. It’s not your place to ask.”
“But I’m curious. I knowIcouldn’t do it. You need someone to come home to, someone to change the mood music in your life, to distract you from yourself.”
“You say the sweetest things, honey,” Sarah mocked as she rose, taking their plates to the sink. “Now finish up that wine and come upstairs. I’m going to run a bath and there’s room for two if you’re interested...”
Jonathan did as he was told, placing his empty glass on the marble top. Upstairs, he could hear the hot water thundering into the tub and it made him think. Here he had warmth, love and more besides. Out there in the dark somewhere was Helen Grace. What did she have? Who did she have? How did she make her world work? Their discussion earlier had been embarrassing but also illuminating. Brilliant as she was, she was terribly alone and who could say what the eventual cost of that might be? He never felt paternalistic toward his staff, but he did worry abouther. She was the bedrock of Southampton Central. If she broke, they would all suffer.
