She’d been parked in Leonard Close for over two hours and there was still no sign of Joshua Keynes. She was starting to wonder if he’d got there before her and was already in the house, slouched down on the sofa watching CSI with a sandwich in one hand and a mug of cocoa in the other. The close consisted of twelve cottage-style properties, six on each side, none of which could have provided the owners with much change from a million quid. She’d done a quick recce of number six, but it was too dark to see much. There was still a light on in one of the ground-floor rooms and a silver Porsche was parked in the driveway. But did the car belong to him or her? And anyway, if it was his, he would have left it at home if he’d known he’d be drinking. All the front gardens had hedges which provided her with cover. Unless someone actually came out on the close, she wouldn’t be noticed. She could sit there all night and no one would be any the wiser. And, if the truth be told, she’d probably be none the wiser either.
