“It’s not there anymore,” Simon said to Gibbs in the voice Charlie feared, the one that always signaled his failure to notice she was alive for the foreseeable future. “Is it? Am I going senile?”

“Of course it’s not there now,” said Liv. “The incriminating tweets vanished seconds after they appeared.”

“You sure about this, Liv?” Gibbs asked her. “You didn’t imagine it, or . . . misremember?”

“One hundred and fifty percent positive. I follow both of them. I watched those tweets as they happened. I’ve still got DMs from that day, probably—friends who saw it too. I was suspicious even before the nicey-nicey bit at the end. Damon Blundy had no kids and regularly wrote about how he couldn’t stand children and everything relating to them—how did he know The Gruffalo and Tiddler well enough to be able to parody them at such speed, unless he was involved with Paula Riddiough? Everyone knows they’re her favorite books—well, everyone who follows her tweets, like I do. And then, when the row was followed by that lovey-dovey bit, it seemed obvious. I waited for it to blow up into a huge thing—screengrabs, the works—but no one said anything, not on general Twitter. I think a hell of a lot of people’d be scared to antagonize Damon Blundy, knowing how he goes after anyone he’s got it in for.”

A waiter was approaching. “No,” Simon barked at him without looking in his direction. “Not now.” The waiter retreated, looking grateful to have been warned away from a potentially toxic area of the restaurant.

“Oh, and there was a smiley face too,” said Liv.

“What?” Simon and Gibbs both pounced at the same time.

“Yes, after what I’ve already said—‘Oh no, he didn’t,’ ‘Oh yes, he did!’ et cetera—Blundy sent her a tweet that was just a smiley face. No words.” Liv paused for dramatic effect. She was starting to enjoy the expert-witness role. “And . . . I’m not absolutely sure, but I think the face might even have been winking,” she said.

CHAPTER 11

Tuesday, July 9, 2013

THE CHANCERY HOTEL HASN’T changed since I was last here in February. I expected it to be different. I wanted it to be. Or maybe I only want me to be different—no longer the same fool who arrived here full of hope and excitement five months ago, thinking she was about to consummate her illicit love affair with one of the UK’s most famous newspaper columnists.

Still the same.