Though Worthing appeared in a listing of the top twenty highest-earning CEOs in global healthcare, he didn’t even have his own Wikipedia page. Clearly rich enough not to need a public profile. The real power lurks in the shadows, as any TV-watcher knows.

Petra slid off the chair and came around the counter, and went to join Suki across the shop floor.

Suki was unpacking new stock into the electronics display case. Nobody was going to buy this sundry assortment of satellite phones, luxury tablets, bespoke game consoles and audio equipment from Needful Things rather than a proper shop. More fanciful invoices for the Barlows’ laundering scheme. They were beautifully designed, though – nice to look at.

‘Uh, Suki…’

‘Yes, darling?’

‘I think you got the price wrong on that one,’ she said, pointing at a pair of headphones on a marble stand that were tagged at £50,000.

‘Nope, that’s right. They’re limited-edition Sennheiser Orpheus. Eight valves. Carrara marble chassis. Perfect gift for the man who will never be famous.’

‘Who the hell would…’ Petra shook her head, decided to let it go. ‘You don’t happen to know someone called Curtis Worthing, do you?’ It was a long shot, but if anyone she knew had access to inside information about Curtis Worthing, it would be Suki.

‘Who’s he?’

‘He’s the CEO of MyHealth. He’s retiring here in Leam, apparently.’

‘Oh, yeah, it’s ringing a bell. Why?’

‘No real reason. Vincent’s doing some work for him. His middleman’s a bit of a dick.’

Suki raised her eyebrows. ‘Really? As I remember, there was some unpleasantness with the Worthings – the name’s always mentioned with a bit of a sneer, you know.’

‘Why’s that?’

Suki shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t really keep up with the corporate gossip. Couldn’t be less interested. But let me ask Ben. He’ll know if there’s any dirt to be dug, and if there is, we can drive this mean CEO who’s tormenting your boyfriend and his dickish supervisor right out of town. What do you say?’

Petra laughed. ‘Go for it.’

While Suki was in the back office calling her brother, the wabi sabi woman sloped out and the couple came downstairs and bought a sizeable stack of vintage LPs, and another handful of customers came in, the door grinding and tinkling every time. It had turned into an ad hoc post-lunch mini-rush, a bit of daytime wine always helping with impulse buys of unnecessary items.

‘Oops,’ a man with a pinstriped hat giggled as he turned and swished Suki’s Tattooed Dudes colouring book stand over, the books sliding impressively far across the polished-concrete floor. Another side-effect of wine o’clock shopping.

Petra squatted and started to collect up the books while the giggling man evacuated. She’d gathered up maybe three quarters into a pile and moved closer to the countertop to collect the ones closest to the toppled dump bin, shifting her weight, when she felt it. A distinct seepage, up her sock, a definite grind of gritty soil, as if there were boggy puddles in the bottoms of her shoes. Instinctively, without looking, she stuck her fingers into her sock, shoving them down her ankle, to wipe at whatever was causing that sensation. She moved to the next book, picked it up and slapped it onto a new low stack she’d made on the floor.