Joe didn’t want me to go to work today. He thought I should take the day off. But it’s not so easy to call in sick when you’re the manager, especially while George is away. I can’t expect Pippa to manage on her own, and besides, if she is stealing, this would give her the perfect opportunity to help herself to more stock. Besides, George is still waiting for me to speak to her. I sit at my dressing table painstakingly applying make-up to my swollen, scratched-up face. There’s not much I can do to disguise the damage. And despite my best efforts, I’ll probably still end up frightening the customers away.

Frank winds himself round my ankles as I dab foundation on the worst of the scratches. He starts miaowing in an attempt to get me to hurry up and give him his breakfast.

‘Come on then, Frank. Let’s get you something to eat.’ I give up on my face, deciding that I’ll spend most of the day hiding away in the stockroom. Pippa can always call me into the shop if it gets really busy. I make my way down the stairs, trying to avoid the trip hazard that is my cat. I’ve already decided I’m not going to speak to Pippa about the thefts today. Before I have that talk with her, I’ll need to line someone up to take her place. I might call Maggie in the Cirencester branch, see if she can recommend anyone. I’ll use my accident as an excuse for George, in case he asks why I still haven’t spoken to her.

The sound of Frank’s purring fills the kitchen as I begin spooning his breakfast into a bowl. Switching on the kettle, my thoughts turn to the police. I’d have thought Llewellyn might have called last night to see how I was. But maybe the Bristol coppers haven’t sent over the information yet. If I haven’t heard anything from her by lunchtime, I’ll give her a call to see what she makes of yesterday’s ‘accident’.

Joe enjoyed setting up the camera for me yesterday. We decided he would do it surreptitiously, after dark. Even though Reuben from the camera shop had shown me how to set it up myself, I was too shaken and exhausted to even try. Joe hid the camera beneath some foliage in one of the terracotta flowerpots in the back garden. Once he was happy that it was suitably camouflaged, he brought the pot around to the front porch and spent ages testing out the angles. Eventually, he was satisfied that he’d set it up in the best position to capture anyone stepping onto our pathway.

After a quick breakfast of coffee and toast, I leave the house, get in my car and set off for work. It’s even hotter today, if that’s possible, probably because yesterday’s promised thunderstorm never materialised. A dull throb has started up in my temples; I should have taken some painkillers before leaving the house. Never mind, I’ll pick some up on the way to work.

My glance lands on a yellow air freshener dangling from my rear-view mirror. It’s in the shape of a VW Beetle and it smells of bananas, of all things. I hate bananas. Who would even want their car to smell like that? Joe must have put it up yesterday, but it’s going straight in the bin because the smell is vile. Typical Joe; he must have put it up as a joke. I smile to myself. I’ll text him to say his sense of humour is getting worse.

As I turn out of our road, the air freshener swings around and I notice there’s writing on the back in thick black marker pen. Suddenly I get a tight feeling in my chest. A car horn blares, making me swerve and gasp. In a split second, I’ve veered onto the other side of the road. I turn the wheel sharply to get back onto my side as a male driver in a silver Nissan zooms past, hurling all kinds of abuse out of his window. Can’t say I blame him. I nearly caused a head-on collision. I pull over onto the grass verge, my heart hammering.

With shaking fingers, I take a tissue out of my handbag and use it to spin the air freshener around so I don’t get my prints on it. I’m dreading seeing what’s written on the back, praying it’s something innocuous, but knowing it won’t be.

The words seem to grow bigger on the card. It’s written in the same rounded, swirly hand as the letters. I hear the tone of the words in my head – bitter, hateful. The words of someone who wants to hurt me. Kill me, even. I let go of the card, mindful that the police won’t want my prints on it.

This proves that I was pushed. This is definitely no secret admirer. This is someone deranged. Someone who has been watching me. Following me. Stalking me. They’ve been inside my house. And it hits me that they’ve also been inside my car! How did they get inside here? I turn to look at all the windows, but they’re all rolled up. I get out, unsteady on my feet and begin to check all the doors. At the side of the road, the dry grass tickles my ankles as I walk around the vehicle, careful not to slip down into the ditch.

Both my back doors are locked. I try the passenger door handle next, and to my dismay it opens. It’s unlocked! Did I leave it that way? I wouldn’t have been so careless, surely? I never sit on that side, anyway. My car is old, it doesn’t have central locking or an alarm. Does this person have a copy of my car key? Or did I accidentally leave the passenger door unlocked? How would I even know?

I slam the door closed and remain standing on the grass verge, staring into space, my brain going into overdrive. Whoever wrote the message on the air freshener must have got into my car sometime last night or early this morning. Which means they were in my road, outside the cottage. For a brief second I have the hopeful thought that my new spy cam will have captured whoever it is. But then I remember that I didn’t park right outside my house yesterday as there were no spaces; I parked a few doors down – out of the range of the camera. Even so, I’ll be able to check to see whether anyone walked past the house to get to the car. The footage might be clear enough to reveal who is doing this. But what will I do if I spot my sister on the video? I know she hates me now. But to try to kill me…

Emma and I used to be so close. Sure, we were different – she’s always been studious, serious, beautiful. Everything has always come naturally to her. She never had to work hard at school, but consistently got ‘A’s in her exams. Boys were always intimidated but fascinated by her at the same time. Whereas I was more of a regular girl – I had to work hard to get any decent exam results. I always struggled with my weight. Don’t get me wrong, I was pretty enough and had my fair share of the boys’ attention. Plus I was probably more popular than Emma, with more friends.

So, is that the reason? Was she somehow jealous of me for my popularity? She never showed any signs. She never said or did anything overtly nasty until the incident with Joe. Maybe she kept it all bottled up? Kept it quiet for years, and now it’s all coming out in the shape of these awful letters. And worse.

Or is my imagination making connections where they don’t exist? As I was falling into the path of the traffic yesterday, I thought I saw Emma running away. But did I? Or was it my mind playing tricks on me in a terrifying situation? Maybe, in some twisted way, it was Emma I wanted to see. But it’s more likely it was simply someone with the same hair colour disappearing into the crowd. Someone who might actually be nothing to do with me. They could have been a random person in a crowd who I latched on to. I do feel guilty for suspecting my sister. For thinking her capable of something so evil. And yet she’s betrayed me before…

I walk round to the road again and get back into the car, anxious, but also eager to head home and check the camera footage. I’ll check the spy cam, then give Sergeant Llewellyn a call. Waiting until the road is clear of traffic, I execute a clumsy five-point turn, almost reversing into the ditch. But eventually I’m facing the right way and I head back home. A couple of minutes later, I park in a newly free space outside my house, nervously wondering if the person trying to hurt me might be watching me now. What if it isn’t Emma who’s been harassing me, but it is in fact Ian from next door? I got very odd vibes off him when we were round there for dinner. Hopefully I’ll discover who it is soon enough. But part of me is terrified to find out.

I sit in the car for a few moments, hands gripping the steering wheel, paranoia gripping my mind. I can’t let them know about the spy cam, so my plan is to walk up the front path, pretend to drop my keys, and then while I’m picking them up, I’ll block the plant pot with my body and detach the camera. The road is quiet. No one around at this time on a Tuesday morning. Well, no one that I can see. They’re all either at work, or inside wishing for air con.

With a hammering heart I exit the car, lock it and walk up the baking path. I let my keys slip out of my hand and then crouch down to retrieve them, legs like jelly. I keep thinking someone is going to run up and attack me from behind. Much as I want to keep throwing glances over my shoulder, I don’t.

I slide my hand beneath the foliage in the flowerpot, trying to stealthily detach the camera from its hiding place. But my fingers find only soil and leaves. Where is the bloody thing? I drop the pretence of picking up my keys, and instead begin frantically searching the plant pot, digging my fingers beneath the dry earth and pulling back the stems of whatever half-dead plant this is. There’s nothing here. I shift the pot to the other side of the porch, scanning the ground in case the spy cam has become detached somehow, and fallen onto the flagstones.

But it’s gone. The camera has disappeared.

Someone must have taken it.