There was a glimmer of real possibility about this story she was investigating, but it was early days. It wasn’t anywhere near good enough to win her the job – not yet. She only had a few covert interviews, but Becky was determined to dig for that little thread, something that she’d pull on so it would unravel into something that would capture the public’s imagination, that would cause a domino effect in the sphere she was investigating. This both scared and excited her. She hadn’t told anyone yet. Terence would likely go ballistic, but she wanted to do her homework and find something concrete.

If she was honest, she wanted to go into Terence’s office, tell him what she’d discovered and have him jump up from his desk. He’d admonish her (severely but briefly) and she’d take it on the chin because, after that, he’d be looking at her with a new kind of respect, praising her ability to find a story of such magnitude. She’d be summoned in to see the editor and Terence would describe her achievements in his usual pithy way, which just made them sound even more remarkable. And then she’d be offered the job of reporter, beating Piers fair and square. Becky allowed herself to linger on this fantasy for a moment and then smiled; it seemed as though Terence wasn’t the only one with an ego.

She got off the train at Ramsbourne and, pulling her scarf up over her mouth to protect against the cold, cycled the short distance to Hawthorne Lane and rang the bell at number twelve. This was the last of her interviews in the village.

The door was opened with a flourish. ‘Hi!’ A lady with cropped blonde hair beamed back at her.

‘Hello, Mrs Stamp?’ said Becky, holding up her ID. ‘I’m Becky Ellis. From the Herald.’

‘Grace, please. And excuse my appearance,’ she said, indicating her apron and her white-dusted hands, ‘but I promised the boys scones for tea. It’s all about the cream,’ she added by way of explanation, ‘they’re mad for it. Can we talk while I just finish cutting them out? Then I’m all yours.’

‘Course,’ said Becky, following her into the warm kitchen with its large range cooker. She looked about for ‘the boys’ but couldn’t see any. ‘Sorry to catch you at a bad time.’

‘No, it’s fine. Just busy, you know, now the kids are home from school.’

Becky smiled.

‘So, living in the country, is it? Your article?’ said Grace as she rolled out the sultana-studded dough.

‘That’s right,’ lied Becky, leaning against the door frame.

‘You can sit down, you know,’ said Grace and then, just as Becky was about to, added, ‘Actually, before you do, can you stick the kettle on?’

Becky followed her nod and, seeing a red kettle on the side, went to fill it.

‘People from the city? Moving to the green?’

‘You got it,’ said Becky. ‘For one of the Saturday supplements. So what happened to you? You fancied a change of scene?’