She stubbed out the second cigarette and stood up to stretch. She needed a shower before she began to chase the few leads that she’d been given by George. Her first stop would be the library, where she could dig out old copies of medical journals relating to Ravensword’s research. She also wanted to check a few newspaper articles, especially to do with what George had told her about the death of his daughter, fifteen years ago. It was what had got him into his independent pursuit of a ground-breaking cure for her condition. Medical science had tried to save her, but the problem was that they were limited in their outlook.

Tilly was easily carried away into a rabbit hole of unidentified depths when researching something that stoked her interest. Part of what she loved about her job was that she was forever learning about new subjects, and this was no different. That was why she’d agreed to speak to George again. The case had led her into a labyrinthine world of illness and cure, and what might motivate the acceptance of one drug over another. She’d made a list of specific things to investigate, as she always did, otherwise she’d find herself spending a whole day chasing something to a minute level that wasn’t perhaps needed just now. And there was a lot to cover. George had said that he could supply her with everything she needed, and that was why he’d given her his address.

‘Why do you trust me?’ she’d asked him. It was quite clear that he trusted very few people, and she was puzzled as to why he’d share so much in their first conversation.

‘You have a kind face,’ was all he’d said. The reply had sent all sorts of alarm bells ringing in Tilly’s head. Firstly, how did he know what she looked like? That was easy: it must be her photograph at the bottom of her articles. Secondly, who had a kind face any more? That one stumped her.

‘And you remind me of my daughter.’

At that point, Tilly had nearly hung up. But she was curious. As always, her inquisitive nature led her on, regardless of the danger she might become embroiled in. The need to seek answers was like a drug; it filled her every waking moment when she was pursuing a story. And she wouldn’t give up until she had what she wanted.

‘I can pay you well,’ he said.

‘How much?’

‘Fifty thousand pounds if it’s published.’

It really was a no-brainer. Images of her hitting the headlines, discussing the case on BBC Breakfast and penning a book flooded her mind. It was that big, George told her.

‘Why now?’

‘I think they’re on to me.’

‘Who’s they?’

‘I’m not sure yet.’