My hand hovered indecisively above the phone as I watched an image on the small TV in the corner – an image that I couldn’t quite compute. The breakfast news: a man I hadn’t seen for years, since university. He stepped down from a private jet, smiling for the cameras. Those pale glacial eyes. Escorted to Number 10, shaking hands with the Prime Minister. Easy to see he’d once been the most powerful man in Britain.

I forgot all about the phone and turned up the volume quickly, but it was too late to catch the full story.

A man I’d hoped desperately I’d never see again. Dalziel’s father.

I dropped Alicia at school, Effie and Fred at nursery and then wandered absently round the supermarket. Amidst jars of apple purée and mountains of bright and shiny baby stuff, my mobile rang for the third time. Finally, I relented.

‘What?’ I muttered.

‘Charming.’

‘I’m really very busy, you know.’

‘Very busy doing what? Comparing nappy brands?’

I looked at a stack of shiny green Pampers.

‘No.’ I turned my back on the nappies. ‘I’m just going into a very important meeting, actually.’

Joyfully the Tannoy announced a large spillage in Aisle 4.

‘Really?’ Xavier sniggered. ‘About what? Which tea-shop to hold the local mothers’ meeting in?’

I smiled despite myself.

‘No, Xavier. About …’ I caught sight of Helen Kelsey studying nail polish in the beauty section. She really did look like a fox. Sleek, but a fox none the less. ‘About – about the local fox hunt.’ I slunk back round the corner of the Pampers before she spotted me.

‘I thought chasing foxes had been banned?’ Xavier drawled. ‘Don’t tell me you’re riding with those hounds.’

‘It’s still a point of serious debate in the countryside, actually.’ I tried to sound convinced. ‘There’s a lot of tension still between hunt and saboteurs.’

Xavier yawned loudly. ‘Oh, don’t be so dreary, dearie. Come back to me. You’re the best newshound I know,’ he persisted. ‘It’s such a waste.’

‘Flattery will get you everywhere,’ I sighed. ‘But I can’t. The children, Xav. I’m not doing that whole nanny thing. And the team really need me here. I can’t just up and—’

‘Oh, please,’ Xavier yawned again. ‘It’s hardly the Wall Street bloody Journal.’

‘Stop yawning.’ I chucked some baby-wipes in the trolley. ‘It’s so rude. The Burford Chronicle is a quality paper, I’ll have you know.’

There was a long pause. We both dissolved into giggles.

‘You silly cow,’ he said fondly. ‘Stop popping babies out and writing about giant marrows—’

‘Er, I’m not sure I like that analogy, thanks, Xav.’

‘- and cover this al-Qaeda story for me.’

I stopped laughing.

‘What story?’

‘New neighbour of yours.’

‘Really? Who?’

‘Hadi Kattan.’