He was so abrupt, it seemed peculiar after last night. So abrupt he was rude. I regarded him for a second. His eyes were uncomfortably blue, piercing even; his skin looked like it had suffered too many summers under hot sun. It was hard to place his age; somewhere in his mid-thirties, I’d guess; a year or two younger than me, perhaps.

‘What exactly is it that you do here?’ A sudden gust whipped my key-ring hard against my wrist. ‘Ow.’ I dropped the keys.

He bent down to retrieve them, handing the ring to me. ‘Who wants to know?’ His skin was hard and calloused, oil beneath his nails.

‘Me, obviously.’ What a stupid thing to say. ‘I just wondered.’

‘I drive for Mr Kattan.’ He took another drag, eyes squinting against sun and smoke. He had nice hands, I thought absently. Long elegant fingers, despite the filthy nails. ‘Amongst other things.’

‘What kind of other things?’

‘This and that, Mrs Miller, this and that.’ He leaned against the old car.

‘And is Mr Kattan here?’

‘Dunno.’

‘I see.’ I tried another smile. ‘Does he have many visitors?’ Danny Callendar laughed – but he was laughing at me, that was clear. ‘What’s it to you, honey?’

‘I’m meant to be writing a piece on him for the local paper. Just interested. Professionally, you know.’

‘Well, professionally,’ he removed a bit of tobacco from his tongue, ‘he has a few.’

‘Right.’ I was tired of smiling to no avail. ‘So I’ll just make my own way up to the house, shall I?’

His expression was unreadable. ‘Were you expecting a lift?’

We stared at each other for a moment. A huge chestnut hunter whickered softly at the fence nearby.

‘Beautiful horse.’

‘Just for show really. Maya rides them occasionally.’

‘Oh?’

‘When she—’ He stopped, ran a hand through his fashionably dishevelled hair. Was it affection I detected?

‘When she what?’ I prompted gently.

‘Nothing,’ he shrugged. ‘I’m pretty busy actually.’

I’ll bet. Cleaning cars. Flat out.

‘So if you don’t mind …’ He turned away. Normally I found a Scottish accent attractive, but his annoyed me intensely.

‘Of course. Thanks a lot for your help.’

If he detected the sarcasm he didn’t react and he disappeared back into the depths of the garage without a second glance. I took a deep breath, and carried on up to the house.

I was like Catherine Morland from Jane Austen’s Northanger Abbey, imagining ghosts and villains where there were none, always looking for drama round the next corner. I had to accept that my addiction lingered, despite my self-imposed retirement. Ridiculous, I told myself, unlocking the car door. I turned the radio on, clicked my seat belt in and began to reverse towards the fountain, where I could turn.

‘This is the sound of a bomb not exploding because the neighbours noticed the chemicals being stored in the garage,’ a male voice droned from the radio.