She looked up from closing the flap on her handbag and the instant when their eyes met was enough to tell Marcia Fells that he had recognised her. He looked away but the damage was done. The man was young and he might as well have worn a neon flashing “I’m a cop”: how he failed to blend in with the general public. She needed to act without alarming him, so she weaved through the standard sidewalk obstructions of the elderly and young mothers with pushchairs. She pretended to hesitate, glancing in a jeweller’s window, gaining reconnaissance time. Sure, there he was in his grey sweatshirt and tight tracksuit pants, being a clever cop, following her and pretending to look at everything except his quarry. Seeing what she needed, she moved on, leaving the pristine façade of shops and offices fo
