This is only a passing phase, she told herself now. But she was conscious of a new wariness when she was around her husband, these days. He was pushing her away and she was worried about losing the strength – and inclination – to push back.

Another tour beckoned in a week, which Connie decided would do her the world of good. She couldn’t keep worrying about what Devan was up to while she was gone. She had to focus on her job, enjoy her time away. Maybe by looking after herself, she’d feel stronger and better able to sympathize with Devan when she was at home.

After the family had gone back to London, she became busy checking all the travel details and touching base with the thirty-two travellers, introducing herself and enquiring about any special requirements they might have. The new data protection laws prevented her knowing their ages or addresses in advance, so during those calls she had to find out as much as she could with some subtle, well-placed questioning. The more she knew, the more she could help them enjoy the perfect holiday.

They seemed a chatty, easy-going lot this time – she didn’t detect any obvious troublemakers. Not at first. A night in Strasbourg, the Bernina Express across the Alps and a luxurious week beside Lake Como was one of her favourite tours and she was ashamed to say that she was almost holding her breath until she could leave.

4

As Connie re-entered the grand foyer of the lakeside hotel on day three, she heard her name called. A couple of her charges were hurrying anxiously towards her across the expanse of mosaic marble, which gleamed in the light of the sun pouring through the open doors to the street.

‘I’ve been calling you, Sandra,’ Connie said, as they reached her. ‘The minibus has just left for the ferry. They couldn’t wait any longer.’

Sandra, a plump woman in her late sixties with aubergine candy-floss hair in a halo round her powdery face and a determined, wilful air, was wheezy with indignation. ‘You said we were leaving at nine thirty and we’re barely ten minutes late.’ She frowned at Connie, clearly convinced it was her fault.

Connie glanced at the ornate gold clock above the reception desk. It said nine fifty-five. ‘I did try to reach you.’

Sandra’s husband, Terry – thin and mild-mannered by contrast and never allowed to say much – nodded. ‘We –’ He was silenced by a glare from his wife.

‘So would you like me to order you a taxi?’ Connie asked quickly, to stem the flow of Sandra’s annoyance. ‘The ferry doesn’t go till ten past so you should just make it if you leave now.’ She paused. ‘And if you don’t, there’s another in an hour.’

‘Will the taxi be free?’ Sandra demanded. ‘We’ve already paid for the minibus.’