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Epilogue

EPILOGUE

The woman joined the queue serviced by a male immigration official. She’d already caught his eye as she sauntered across the concourse. Lucky break for her. The man had ‘dupe’ written all over him.

After a tiresome wait, she was next in line. While he dealt with the elderly couple at his window, she reached into her bag and rummaged around: purse, brush, mobile phone, solicitor’s letter confirming she’d inherited, amongst other things, Moira’s apartment at Belle Vue and the two other properties it had been necessary to acquire for the plan to work. Her fingers kept moving until they felt smooth calfskin. She pulled out the passport holder and held it ready in her hand.

The old-timers shuffled off to the next staging post and the man turned toward her. As his gaze met hers, she licked her lips . . . slowly. She moved forward, pleased to note he wore an expression like all his Christmases had come at once. Perspiration ran down his face. With this air conditioning?

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