20
Dr Dahl
Heathrow. Arrivals. I browsed a fashion magazine in a small, open-fronted newsagent.
Inge was across the concourse, leaning against a pillar.
“You know what he looks like?” I asked her.
“Yes,” she said, pretending to talk on her phone.
“Where’s he flying in from?”
“Copenhagen. The flight’s in baggage claim. He should be out any moment.”
I flipped through the magazine. Beautiful film stars and models draped across posh furniture in millionaire mansions. To think, we stole all that money from JPAC. And not one penny had gone towards a nice dress or pair of shoes. That was the real crime.
“Are you gonna buy that?”
A deep southern accent: the hot breath of a middle-aged security guard on my neck.
“No, I was gonna steal it,” I said.
“Wouldn’t put it past you,” he said.
“
