‘Where do you live? Where were you going? I assume you must be local, if you’re out without a car.’

Again the aborted head-shake, but no eye contact. ‘No. Not local at all. I was brought here.’ An expression more of emotional than physical pain crossed her face. ‘I ran away.’

A host of thoughts filled Thea’s head. People trafficking. An irate husband. An effort to evade detection after committing a crime. Immigration difficulties. One by one, she dismissed them as unlikely. The woman was surely too old to be a reluctant prostitute, and too assertive to be afraid of a husband. This was no retiring violet; despite her suffering she had an air of competence. An aura of assurance and automatic assumption of equality emanated from her. ‘Well, we’ll sort it out somehow. My name’s Thea Slocombe. What’s yours?’ asked Thea.

‘Grace. I’m Grace.’

‘And where are you from?’

The woman briefly closed her eyes and exhaled slowly. Thea groaned inwardly, hearing herself ask that age-old unthinking, viscerally prejudiced question. Was it only 39the Brits who challenged anyone of alien appearance as to their right to be on their precious island? ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quickly. ‘That sounds rude. I don’t mean what country. Just whereabouts in Britain?’

She was making it worse, probably. But then Grace answered with no sign of having taken offence. ‘My father was British and my mother’s Chinese. I lived there for much of my early life, but since then I have been here. The past twenty years, anyway.’

It was a carefully delivered summary, revealing nothing that Thea regarded as relevant. Neither did it answer the question she had actually wanted to ask.

‘But where do you live? Have you got family here?’

‘No, not really.’ The words emerged as a whisper, vaguely regretful. ‘My father died.’

Thea did not waste breath on empty platitudes about loss. Instead she stuck to the same line of questioning, intent on getting hold of something relevant. ‘You say you ran away? Who from? What’s going on?’

Grace swallowed, and adopted a different tone. If anything, she became even more assertive. ‘You don’t need to know the details,’ she said with finality. ‘Are you local?’

Thea shook her head, aware of her supple neck and wholesale good health. ‘I’m looking after a house in the village. I could take you there, if you like. We should call the police, if you’ve been attacked in some way. Held against your will. Whatever it is that happened to you.’

Grace looked up with a complicated expression that seemed to involve making a decision to trust her rescuer. ‘I would be grateful for somewhere to sit down,’ she smiled. 40‘But there’s no sense in involving the police. There’s nothing they can do.’ The smile was fleeting, replaced by a much harder look. ‘I’m sure they must have better things to do,’ she added. ‘Which way is your house?’

Already Thea knew she ought to be regretting the offer of hospitality. There was something profoundly unsettling about this person. The scrappy story in itself would be a worry, but the demeanour of the woman added to the sense of venturing into something unsavoury. But Thea Slocombe, formerly Osborne, was no shrinking violet either. She was almost eager for something challenging; it could be as dodgy as it liked, if only it gave her something to focus on – it was the answer to a prayer. Drew would groan and her daughter Jessica would be horrified. Gladwin would sigh and roll her eyes – but with an understanding smile. This Grace was deeply intriguing. Small like Thea herself, and full of energy. Complicated, too. ‘You’ll have to tell me more about what’s going on,’ she stipulated. ‘I promise not to judge you,’ she added rashly.