“DHL tried to deliver while I was at the supermarket, but we can pick it up tomorrow.” Marcy’s eyes sparkled again as she said, “Come and see the furniture. Some of it’s already assembled, thanks to Rog, the very handyman the delivery chaps put me in touch with. He’s coming back to finish off in the morning.”

As she started to turn away Claudia asked, because she had to, “How did you feel leaving the house yesterday?”

“It was OK,” her mother assured her, although the light in her eyes dimmed, “but we can talk about it later.”

Claudia’s mouth was dry. If that wasn’t bad enough, she knew what else she needed to ask, so forcing herself, she said, “Have you seen the news?”

Marcy’s expression turned to dismay. “You didn’t listen to the radio?”

Claudia hadn’t heard the latest bulletin because Jasmine had been sleeping—and because she was hiding behind a wall of dread.

“We can get it on my laptop,” Marcy told her, and led the way inside.

ONCE PAST THE large blue front door with its sculpted boxtrees on either side and bold brass numbers, they had only one flight of stairs to climb to their flat, where the hall was an obstacle course of unopened boxes, and the sitting room, equally chaotic, was flooded with sunlight. A gentle sea breeze was wafting about the place, adding its scent to the earthiness of cardboard and newness of three mint-green sofas that were half in and half out of their protective covers. A wooden dining table with six upholstered chairs was already assembled and positioned in front of the kitchen, where a kettle looked, for the moment, to be the only appliance on duty.

Marcy carried the attaché case through to the far en suite bedroom that they’d already agreed would be hers, and after sliding it inside a closet she returned to the sitting room to turn on her laptop. When she’d found the news item she was looking for, she hit pause and rested the computer on the boxes stacked against one wall before hitting play.

As she listened and watched, Claudia was aware of bile rising in her throat and Jasmine’s hand searching for hers. She linked their fingers and held on tightly.

Guilty.

She wanted to sob with relief, leap for joy, bury herself away so he could never find her again.

“He hasn’t been sentenced yet,” her mother told her, “but they’re keeping him in custody; he’s still deemed a flight risk.”

Oh yes, he was certainly that. With all those contacts, all that missing money, give him half a chance and he’d never be seen again.

The screen changed and a reporter began talking to the camera.