“It’s only just gone six. I can’t just leave. What’s the problem?” It sounded serious. “Are you and Gordy okay?” She and Gordy were the perfect couple. If there was trouble in paradise, then anything was possible.

“I’ve just turned into Monmouth Street. Have you got your jacket on?”

Oh God. She didn’t say that they were okay. Florence needed me. And she trumped the wrath of my boss. “I’m coming,” I said, wedging the phone between my shoulder and my chin as I logged out.

I pulled my jacket off the back of my chair and headed to the exit, ignoring my boss’s assistant’s pointed look at the clock as she saw me leave.

I saw Florence as soon as I stepped out of the lift. She was facing me from the other side of the glass doors of the office, her shoulders slumped, her forehead furrowed, and her face as pale as a corpse. It was clear something catastrophic had happened.

I was going to kill Gordy.

“I’m so sorry, Florence,” I said, and I opened my arms and pulled her into a hug.

She held me so tight, I struggled to breathe. She must be devastated. We all thought Gordy was one of the good guys.

“I wanted you to hear this from me,” Florence said as she pulled away and snuck her arm around my shoulder.

“Of course. I’m here for you,” I replied as I grabbed her hand. “I’ll help you bury the body if you want me to.”

She frowned as if she was surprised by my offer, but how could she be? There wasn’t anything I wouldn’t do for Florence. For either of my two best friends.

We crossed the street and found an outside table at the bar opposite my office on Monmouth Street. One of the few positives about my job was that it was based in the West End and surrounded by bars and restaurants. “We’re going to need wine,” I said.

We were going to need a shovel. If she didn’t kill Gordy, I would.

We ordered a bottle of wine and took a seat. “So you saw?” Florence said. “You seem very calm.”

“Saw what?” I asked. “Oh,” I said, pulling out my phone. “You said there was something in my personal email.”

“You didn’t see?” Florence asked.

“What?”

She pulled my phone from my grasp and grabbed my hands. “What body are you helping me bury?” she asked.

“Gordy’s, of course. Tell me what he’s done.”

She shook her head. “It’s not Gordy. It’s Matt.”

My stomach dropped straight through the seat of my chair and I froze. If Florence had raced over here from where she worked in the City at six on a Wednesday, it couldn’t be good news. Had he been in an accident? Had his dad died?