She looked at the screen. He was so predictable. His icons were pedestrian and familiar, all except two. One was a smiley face, which was odd for someone who lacked any type of gaiety to speak of, except dark humour. The other looked to her like a family crest. She was sure she’d seen it before. It was a shield, with three flowers on one side and two swords on the other.

Bingo. She knew where she’d seen it: on the entrance placard to a swanky club that Philip had taken her to in Berkeley Square. She’d been impressed. It was exclusive, opulent, and obscenely indulgent. It was called the Montague Club, and Philip had said he was a life member there because he knew the owner.

She clicked on the icon. It asked for a password, and she searched her memory for words that Philip liked to use. One sprang immediately to mind. He said it when he orgasmed, and the first time she’d heard it, she’d almost laughed. It was his favourite word. He’d muttered it under his breath once when he was angry with George. Poor George. He was obsessed with addiction and how to cure it. Any father would do the same, and not stop until he found peace over the death of his child. She genuinely felt for him. Which was why she’d agreed to help him. She’d doubted he’d get far on his own.

Over the last ten years, George had had three monkeys and one chimp out of the primate lab. Miranda had asked him for updates – tactfully, of course – and he’d always said the same thing: ‘I’m quietly confident.’ She’d felt affection for him, and was cross with Philip when it became company knowledge that George had been effectively threatened over his restrictive covenant. That was when she’d let it slip about what she suspected he was up to. She’d wanted to protect the old man and his pursuit of his pipe dream that would never come to anything, but Philip had taken an unusual level of interest in her revelation.

Revenge was a beautiful thing, and Miranda checked her phone for the number of the detective who’d been nosing around her lab. Rumours circulated quickly at Ravensword, and Philip had a loose tongue when he was in her bed with a whisky inside him. As soon as she found out that George had been killed, she’d begun to see Philip in a new light. Of course, he’d have had nothing to do with it – some thug far removed from the CEO of the multinational would take the rap – but Miranda reckoned she could hazard a guess at why George was no longer with them. The deaths of Emily and Mike had thrown her until she’d realised that they were helping George too. It made complete sense.