Forced out of the car, she grabbed her leather jacket from amongst the detritus on the back seat and held it over her head as she pressed the intercom. Claudia didn’t deign to answer immediately and, when she did, she sounded surprised at the interruption.

Leanne’s features were set grim as she climbed the stairs with her rucksack slumped over her shoulder. Reaching the top floor, she wasn’t surprised to discover the door to Claudia’s apartment firmly closed. She knocked with a tightened fist and, after a short delay, Claudia greeted her with a bright smile that momentarily disarmed Leanne.

Claudia was less polished than the images splashed across Cheshire’s society pages, and she appeared diminutive despite being two inches taller than Leanne. Her dark, raven hair had been tied back in a messy knot, and her brown eyes were smudged with what looked like the previous day’s make-up.

‘God, you’re soaked,’ she said, beckoning Leanne inside and taking her jacket.

There was a pause before Leanne realised she was expected to take off her boots and replace them with the open-toed slippers stacked neatly by the door for guests. Leanne was wearing her Docs and turned away from Claudia as she unlaced them. Her big toe protruded through one of her socks and she pulled both off discreetly before shoving them into her boots. The deep pile carpet felt warm underfoot as she stepped into the white, terry-towelling slippers.

‘Let’s go through to the kitchen and I’ll make you a hot drink,’ said Claudia, leading the way past seven polished oak doors. All closed.

‘Nice place,’ Leanne noted, not needing to see inside the rooms to know her host had expensive taste.

The kitchen confirmed her suspicions. There wasn’t a black quartz surface or hand-polished tile that didn’t shine like a freshly minted coin. It was a bit too ostentatious for Leanne’s liking.

The Rothwells had done well for themselves. They weren’t in the super-rich league of Sedgefield’s finest, but they certainly moved in the same circles. According to Leanne’s research, Claudia’s husband, Justin, was a finance director for a pharmaceutical company and had the benefit of a private education. He was forty years old and had one previous marriage. No children.

There was relatively little information available on thirty-four-year-old Claudia. She appeared to spend her days championing worthy causes between long lunches and evening soirées. She was a Phillipa Montgomery in the making.

‘Make yourself at home,’ Claudia said, pointing to the breakfast table, where two chairs had been positioned at an angle rather than opposite each other. There was a plate of biscuits waiting, including Jammy Dodgers and Custard Creams, which looked as out of place in the current setting as Leanne herself. ‘Would you like tea or coffee?’

‘Coffee, please.’