But I had twelve boxes of his stock piled up in the hallway to remind me of his existence every time I went in the front door and I needed to do something about them. In the end, I sorted out some pretty things and took them around to Pat for her Honeysuckle Farm stall. She was doing quite well with her earrings. I told her I wanted fifty per cent on any of Nick’s stock that she sold. This fifty per cent I would eventually give back to him. It meant that I didn’t get anything out of the arrangement, but I was past caring by then.

I had a second reason for keeping Nick at a distance. When I’d got back from Paul’s caravan that morning, I found a message from Verbena Clarke, telling me that she no longer required my services. I needn’t call again.

I was livid. I’d resisted the temptation to contact her about the visit from the police, looking forward to a free and frank discussion when I saw her next, which should have been the following morning when I went to work for her. Her abrupt termination of my employment was as good as an accusation.

I tried to ring her back but she didn’t pick up and she’d turned off her answering machine. I considered storming around to her house, but after five minutes of fuming consideration, I decided that I was well shot of her. And if I was, as Ricky and Morris suggested, guilty by association, then I was well shot of Nick too.

I got back into my pre-Nick groove, concentrating on my clients. Chloe Berkeley-Smythe had come back from her cruise and I returned to cleaning for her in her old weekly slot. To be truthful, I never got much work done for Chloe. She would have been quite happy to pay me to chat, pore over cruise brochures, and help her plan her next romp around the Caribbean. I had to be disciplined, doggedly working on while her foghorn voice bellowed over the noise of the vacuum-cleaner, telling me that it must be time to stop for a little drinkie by now.