‘Walk on by, why don’t you?’ she told Ash. ‘Look the other way. It’s not like you’re serving queen and country any more. Just yourself.’ She rang off angrily.

*

Having examined her face in the bathroom mirror at length – the cut on her fat lip was a blackened mess around proud flesh, the scratches across her cheeks and forehead pure horror film – Bridge knew that even if she dropped today’s job interview, Aleš would take one look at her and bar her from riding again. It had to be worth getting a ballpark price from Skully the Medicine Cabinet, at least.

His phone was answered within a ring, the reception making it difficult to be understood, his evasive manner more so. ‘You’ve got the wrong number, love,’ he laughed when she’d asked if he had surgical-grade fibrin sealants.

Bridge explained again, seriously doubting the wisdom of this. ‘Like you’d use after a fight, you know? To close a wound.’

‘What d’you say your name was?’

‘Bridge Mazur.’

‘Never heard of you.’

‘Please, Skully. I really need your help. I live in the village. In Bagot. I’m a friend of Carly Turner.’

‘Hang on.’ The phone was muffled, a conversation going on his end, a bark of angrily exchanged words, then he came back to her. ‘You Flynn’s neighbour, yeah?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Been in a fight, have you?’

‘You could say that.’

The phone was muffled again, another exchange, quieter and more urgent this time.

‘You at home?’

‘That’s right, but I need to go out in a couple of hours. It’s really important I don’t draw attention to the cuts.’

‘Wait there.’ He rang off.

Immediately regretting the call, worrying she’d plunged herself into an underworld racket that could leave her scarred for life, Bridge took a quick shower before pulling on joggers and a fleece, hair turbaned in a towel ready to style later. Her face looked even worse scrubbed clean. If ever there was a day she needed her sister’s magical make-up skills it was now. She took a selfie and sent it to Bernie. Help! Urgent advice. Job interview in 2 hrs. Checking the clock, she remembered it was the middle of the night in LA.

WTF? Bernie had predictably not yet gone to bed.

Disagreement with a tree. Someone’s suggested surgical glue?

FaceTime me NOW.

The video call was still ringing through when there was a knock on the door and a tall, big-shouldered shadow moved behind the small glass square.

‘I’ve changed my mind!’ she called through the letter box, finding herself talking to a denim crotch, fly buttons excitingly bulging. ‘Sorry to waste your time.’

‘Open the door.’ The voice was husky, local and familiar.

She pulled it open on the chain to find Ash Turner, hoodie up, silver eyes darting from her face to the shadowed room behind her.

‘Delivery service.’ He held up a small tube of liquid. ‘You alone?’

‘Skully sent you?’

‘The wife thought you might be in a spot of bother.’ His pale grey eyes ran expertly across her face and then, brows lowering, he looked past her into the shadows of the house. ‘He’s gone, has he?’