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Description
Amanda Jones – anthropology student and amateur detective – was very partial to coffee, particularly when it came with free wi-fi. On arrival in New York, she had turned her fine detective skills immediately to finding the best Italian espresso within a few blocks of her father’s Upper West Side apartment.

Her need was not only for refreshment – her father’s parsimony had left Amanda's summer base lacking the basic human right of high speed internet access. His unsatisfactory excuse was something to do with saving $100 a month while away in the Middle East.

The quest for coffee and wi-fi had led Amanda to Benny’s Tea Shop, on the corner of Columbus and West 73rd St. Benny, short for Benedicto, was a generous, middle-aged man who took an instant liking to Amanda; plying her with pastries which the slim girl refused demurely. It was only after a sustained week-long assault that Benny discovered Amanda's weakness – iced cinnamon roll cakes.

On the summer afternoon in question, Amanda was firmly ensconced in the window seat, chin resting on hand, watching the world go by. The other hand seemed melded to a computer mouse and had not moved for ten minutes; the laptop screen had dutifully darkened to preserve battery life.

“No….. way!” Amanda uttered suddenly. “You’ve got to be kidding!”

Startled, she jumped up, scooped her possessions into a canvas rucksack and scrambled to the door, leaving the nonplussed Benny in her wake.

Out in the street, half-running, Amanda fumbled in the pocket of her jean shorts, pulling out a cell phone. Her eyes were fixed in the middle distance, on a figure some hundred yards ahead. He was a tall man, of late middle age, in a tweed jacket, cords and bow tie. Amanda knew him well.

“Ciara!” she exclaimed breathlessly into her phone, “You’ll never believe who's here in New York!”

Amanda stopped suddenly to avoid being hit by a taxi, and involuntarily blurted out a four letter word. For a moment, she lost sight of her quarry, before catching him crossing the street in the distance.

“It’s Lafarge!” she shouted above the noise of the traffic. “I know!" she continued, "I don’t believe it either. I don't know how he got into the country, but it’s definitely him.” She skipped around a fruit vendor who was serving a young lady with a stroller.

“I have find out what he’s doing here," she insisted. "Can you look online for me and check what happened with his court case? He shouldn’t be out on the street, let alone over here.”

The sound of a car horn made Amanda jump and spin around - she had to look where she was going.

But Lafarge was getting away! Amanda scanned the horizon and panicked momentarily: she had lost sight of him. Then, after a few seconds, she noticed him briskly climbing stone steps into a familiar building.

“He’s going into the Birtwhistle,” Amanda said anxiously. “I have to follow him. Yep - gotta go. Yes, I’ll be careful. Please just look into his court case and text me. Bye.”

She stuffed the phone back in her pocket and jogged along the street. Then, scaling the steps in four bounds, she pushed on the heavy, revolving door of the old neo-gothic building: the Birtwhistle Museum.

Description
Amanda Jones – anthropology student and amateur detective – was very partial to coffee, particularly when it came with free wi-fi. On arrival in New York, she had turned her fine detective skills immediately to finding the best Italian espresso within a few blocks of her father’s Upper West Side apartment.

Her need was not only for refreshment – her father’s parsimony had left Amanda's summer base lacking the basic human right of high speed internet access. His unsatisfactory excuse was something to do with saving $100 a month while away in the Middle East.

The quest for coffee and wi-fi had led Amanda to Benny’s Tea Shop, on the corner of Columbus and West 73rd St. Benny, short for Benedicto, was a generous, middle-aged man who took an instant liking to Amanda; plying her with pastries which the slim girl refused demurely. It was only after a sustained week-long assault that Benny discovered Amanda's weakness – iced cinnamon roll cakes.

On the summer afternoon in question, Amanda was firmly ensconced in the window seat, chin resting on hand, watching the world go by. The other hand seemed melded to a computer mouse and had not moved for ten minutes; the laptop screen had dutifully darkened to preserve battery life.

“No….. way!” Amanda uttered suddenly. “You’ve got to be kidding!”

Startled, she jumped up, scooped her possessions into a canvas rucksack and scrambled to the door, leaving the nonplussed Benny in her wake.

Out in the street, half-running, Amanda fumbled in the pocket of her jean shorts, pulling out a cell phone. Her eyes were fixed in the middle distance, on a figure some hundred yards ahead. He was a tall man, of late middle age, in a tweed jacket, cords and bow tie. Amanda knew him well.

“Ciara!” she exclaimed breathlessly into her phone, “You’ll never believe who's here in New York!”

Amanda stopped suddenly to avoid being hit by a taxi, and involuntarily blurted out a four letter word. For a moment, she lost sight of her quarry, before catching him crossing the street in the distance.

“It’s Lafarge!” she shouted above the noise of the traffic. “I know!" she continued, "I don’t believe it either. I don't know how he got into the country, but it’s definitely him.” She skipped around a fruit vendor who was serving a young lady with a stroller.

“I have find out what he’s doing here," she insisted. "Can you look online for me and check what happened with his court case? He shouldn’t be out on the street, let alone over here.”

The sound of a car horn made Amanda jump and spin around - she had to look where she was going.

But Lafarge was getting away! Amanda scanned the horizon and panicked momentarily: she had lost sight of him. Then, after a few seconds, she noticed him briskly climbing stone steps into a familiar building.

“He’s going into the Birtwhistle,” Amanda said anxiously. “I have to follow him. Yep - gotta go. Yes, I’ll be careful. Please just look into his court case and text me. Bye.”

She stuffed the phone back in her pocket and jogged along the street. Then, scaling the steps in four bounds, she pushed on the heavy, revolving door of the old neo-gothic building: the Birtwhistle Museum.