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permanently. It was a beautiful city with plenty of amenities, and the people were as friendly and polite as the stereotypes suggested. Edwin found himself reluctant to leave, and it was with a heavy heart that he left his hotel suite to head back to London’s squalor. Edwin wondered if the hit had occurred yet. He had deliberately left his mobile back in London, and had not left his hotel contact details with anyone. There was no one for him to leave them to. His work friends were no more, as was his marriage, and he had long since neglected his university compatriots.
    Getting through airport security was painless, though Edwin made sure to keep his belt on as he went through the metal detectors. He wanted to be remembered, just in case.
    The flight was equally uneventful. He made a pass at one of the air hostesses, but was shot down in a delightfully polite manner.
    Edwin spent most of the nine hours fifteen minutes working out how to minimise the chances of the police catching him. He would have to go to her funeral of course. It would be noticed if he didn't. He might even have to give a eulogy. At the least he'd have to look after Chelsea through the service and the wake.
    He'd also have to be careful with the insurance. Fortunately it was an older policy taken out just after he and Eleanor married, so it wouldn't flag any suspicion for being recent. He would have to leave it in a drawer for a while; he mustn't been seen as too eager to claim, otherwise the police would never stop pursuing him. Edwin would simply have to play the aggrieved husband. They were having some troubles, but who wasn't? He and Eleanor had argued before, and they'd always worked it out. He was hopeful that this time would have been no different. He would move back into the townhouse of course; it simply wouldn't do to uproot Chelsea after all she had been through.
    Edwin dropped off to sleep over Greenland as these thoughts gambolled through his brain. A slight smile was painted on his aristocratic features.

CHAPTER 6: JOGGING IS MURDER
    Vanhi knew London was a hotbed for closed circuit television. Years of prostitution and drugs had taught her to avoid the bright lights of touristville, and to hide in a crowd when she could.
    She was still reluctant to be caught on CCTV on the tube network. Her apartment was above a chip shop in Caledonian Road. She could walk to Battersea Park, but it was almost six miles going straight there, and Vanhi wanted to take a more circumspect route.
    Vanhi's route took her on foot to Camden Town tube station. It was on the Northern line, the busiest commuter line on the underground. Vanhi knew she could easily be lost among the foot traffic. She took a train south to Stockwell before doubling back to Oval. To any observer it would look like she had simply missed her stop and gone one station too far.
    In reality it let Vanhi know she was not being followed. She didn't expect to be, but few paranoid criminals ever wound up in prison.
    From there it was less than half an hour on foot to Battersea Park. As she made her way there Vanhi observed a discernible lack of CCTV near the disused Battersea power station, as well as noticing that New Convent Garden Market was bustling with business, even at this early hour.
    By half-past seven she was seated on a bench overlooking Fountain Lake. She sat with a paperback for a while, occasionally glancing at her mobile phone.
    The mobile, like the paperback, had been bought just for the occasion. It was an old phone, and wouldn't attract any attention. The SIM card was a pay-as-you-go edition bought in a corner shop. She could have got one for free online, but this way she remained anonymous. She didn't need the phone to communicate, but by pretending to be sending text messages she could while away time without anyone becoming suspicious. Who would look at just another Londoner attached to their mobile?
    Vanhi had taken this route several times before, and she now knew Eleanor's