“At least he’s out in the world!” says Jess with sudden passion. “At least he’s doing something with his life! You know, he’s been really depressed, Janice. This is just what he needs.”

“I know what my son needs!” Janice retorts indignantly as the doorbell rings. I heave myself to my feet, glad of an excuse to get out of the line of fire.

“I’ll just get this….” I head into the hall and pick up the entry phone. “Hello?”

“I have a delivery for you,” comes a crackly voice.

My heart skips a beat. A delivery. This has to be it. It has to be. As I press the buzzer I can hardly breathe. I’m telling myself firmly not to hope, it’ll be another package for Jess, or a catalog, or a computer part for Luke….

But when I open the door, there’s a motorbike courier standing in his leathers, holding a big padded envelope, and I already recognize Dave Sharpness’s writing in bold black marker pen.

I lock myself in the cloakroom and feverishly rip the envelope open. There’s a manila folder inside, marked “Brandon.” On the front is stuck a Post-it note, with a scribbled message: Hope this helps. Any further assistance required, do not hesitate. Yours, Dave S.

I open it up, and it’s all there. Copies of all the notes, transcripts of conversations, photos…I leaf through, my heart thumping. I’d forgotten quite how much stuff they had collected on Iain Wheeler. For a crappy private detective agency in West Ruislip, they actually did a great job.

I quickly bundle it all up again and head into the cool, empty kitchen. I’m about to pick up the phone to call Luke, when it rings, making me jump.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Mrs. Brandon,” comes an unfamiliar male voice. “Mike Enwright from the Press Association here.”

“Oh, right.” I stare at the phone, puzzled.

“I just wondered if you could comment on rumors that your husband’s company is going down?”

I feel a shiver of shock.

“It’s not going down,” I say robustly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“News is, he’s lost the Arcodas account. And the latest rumor is Foreland Investment is going the same way.”

“He has not lost Arcodas!” I exclaim, furious. “They have parted ways for reasons which I cannot discuss. And for your information, my husband’s company is as strong as ever. Stronger! Luke Brandon has been courted by high-caliber clients all his career, and he always will be. He is a man of immense integrity, talent, intelligence, good looks, and…and dress sense.”

I break off, breathing hard.

“OK then!” Mike Enwright is chuckling. “I get the picture.”

“Are you going to quote all that?”

“I doubt it.” He chuckles again. “But I like your attitude. Thanks for your time, Mrs. Brandon.”

He rings off and, flustered, I run water into a glass. I have to talk to Luke. I dial his direct line and get through on the third ring.

“Becky!” Luke sounds alert. “Has anything—”

“No, it’s not that.” I check outside the kitchen door and lower my voice. “Luke, the Press Association just rang. They wanted a quote about you”—I swallow—“going down. They said Foreland were leaving you.”

“That is bullshit!” Luke’s voice erupts in anger. “Those Arcodas fuckers are feeding stories to the press.”

“They couldn’t really damage you, could they?” I say fearfully.

“Not if I have anything to do with it.” Luke sounds resolute. “The gloves are off. If they want to fight, we’ll fight. We’ll take them to court if it comes to it. Charge them with harassment. Expose the whole bloody lot of them.”

I feel a huge surge of pride as I hear him speak. He sounds like the Luke Brandon I first met. Assured and in charge of the situation. Not running around after Iain Wheeler like some lackey.

“Luke, I’ve got something for you.” My words spill out. “I have…material on Iain Wheeler.”

“What did you say?” says Luke after a pause.

“There were some old cases of harassment and office bullying that were hushed up. I’ve got a whole dossier on him, right here in my hands.”

“You’ve got what?” Luke sounds flabbergasted. “Becky…what are you talking about?”

Maybe I won’t get into the whole private-detective-in-West-Ruislip story just now.

“Don’t ask me how,” I say hurriedly. “I just do.”

“But how—”