‘OK . . .’ said Kate.

‘Inside the envelope was a single piece of paper with a name on it.’ Iris paused. ‘It’s from Errol, I know it is. He couldn’t be seen to be telling me who the director of Foxgold is, so he left an anonymous note for when we flew back home.’

Kate suddenly realized she was holding her breath.

‘I’m sorry, Kate, I don’t think you’re going to like this. It’s Greg Hollander. He owns everything, Kate. The farm, the chemical company, the whole damn lot.’

Spasms of fear coursed through her body. The silence ticked on. Say something. But horror was splintering all her thoughts and she didn’t know what to say. She was suddenly aware the fingers holding her phone had locked up and she flexed them.

‘Where are you?’ asked Iris.

Kate swallowed. ‘That’s right,’ she said, trying to keep her voice pleasantly neutral, ‘my friend Greg’s giving me a lift into town.’

He glanced across and she tried to smile at him. She felt it falter, felt the sickness rise up in her throat. Has he noticed?

‘Good God, get out of the car,’ said Iris. ‘I don’t want you anywhere near that man.’

Kate felt her stomach tighten. She forced the rising panic back down.

‘Are you doing it?’ said Iris urgently.

Be careful what you say, her brain was screaming. He’s listening. Her right hand was sweating and so she moved the phone into her left.

Think, think. You need to get out of the car. Then she suddenly realized he hadn’t pulled over to let her get out again, as he’d said he would.

‘Yes, shouldn’t be long. We’re just going up Black Prince Road. About to cross the bridge.’

‘Oh, Kate, Kate. Get out of the car. You need to get out of the car!’ shouted Iris.

Then Kate did something mad. She hung up the phone. She was terrified Greg could hear Iris shouting at her. Conscious he was looking across at her, she arranged her features into a neutral expression.

‘Everything OK?’ asked Greg.

She nodded, then realized she hadn’t made eye contact so turned and smiled at him. ‘Fine.’

‘Was that your friend?’

‘Who?’ Dazed, she had answered automatically.

‘That you’re meeting,’ he said, amused.

‘Oh. Yes, it was.’ She affected a light tone. ‘Weren’t you going to drop me off?’

‘Oh! Yes, sorry. Got carried away hearing about the holiday. Like you just said, we’re about to cross the bridge. Mind if we just get over? It’ll be hell to stop now.’

Should she insist? Or was it better to act as if nothing was wrong? The traffic was flowing; if she opened the car door and flung herself out, she’d be hurt. That was if she managed to get away quick enough. Was this all just some kind of madness? Had she been doing this too long and she was losing her mind, imagining terrible things because she missed Becky?

As she fidgeted in her seat an uneasy thought suddenly caught up with her.