‘As you can see, everything is in order,’ she said, as he riffled through the papers. ‘Carry on.’

‘So I see,’ said the auctioneer, picking up his gavel. ‘So, do I see six hundred and fifty thousand pounds?’

A shaking hand went up at the far side of the auction. Patricia couldn’t see the face. But she didn’t care what they looked like. Just what they were prepared to pay.

‘Thank you. Now do I—’

‘The boy’s right!’ a voice rang out. ‘This sale is illegal!’

Patricia rolled her eyes. Was it National Everyone She Didn’t Want to See Day? And now she detected it: the unmistakeable waft of vegetable bisque.

‘Mr Boil?’ the Hooper boy exclaimed. He looked as surprised as she.

‘Shut up, Hooper!’ Boil slurred, swigging from a bottle in a brown paper bag. ‘This doesn’t concern you.’

‘Er – it’s my house,’ said Elliot. ‘So, yeah, it kinda does . . .’

‘That woman is a she-devil!’ Boil yelled, lurching slightly. ‘She’s a thief and a liar and . . . and . . . and a COW!’

‘Could we call security and have this drunkard removed?’ Patricia whispered to the auctioneer. ‘These local yokels are all the same. One sniff of cider and they’re all over the show . . .’

‘You can’t silence me,’ said Boil as a security guard approached. ‘Not like you silenced your husband . . .’

‘My beloved Charles died five years ago in a tragic boating accident,’ sniffed Patricia.

‘Your beloved Charles is recovering in a French hospital,’ sneered Boil. ‘He called me this morning.’

‘You’re drunk,’ spat Patricia, feeling the panic rise in her throat.

‘You’re done for,’ said Boil. ‘Once he can walk on his broken leg, Charles is coming over here. And he’s coming after you.’

‘I don’t know what you’re—’

‘I know everything,’ Boil whispered, staggering towards her. ‘How you stole that winning lottery ticket from the weird cat lady. How you forged the papers to get guardianship of the Hooper boy. How you stole this house from under him. And the second Charles gets here—’

‘He’ll be arrested for fraud,’ Patricia declared. ‘Some use he’ll be to you then.’

‘Oh, he’s already talking to the authorities,’ said Boil. ‘They’re prepared to look far more kindly on him if he’ll testify against you. I warned you, Patricia. You should never have crossed me.’

Patricia’s wicked mind worked all the angles. He must be telling the truth, otherwise how would he know about her husband? Charles Porshley-Plum was a good-for-nothing criminal. But he knew the law. That’s how he got away with breaking it for so long. He could cause massive problems for her – and Patricia knew it. She needed some damage limitation. And she needed it quickly.

‘Mr Boil,’ she gasped. ‘I cannot thank you enough – I . . . I . . . I had no idea! I never would have dreamt of trying to sell the farm if I’d known . . .’