Grace knelt down to him and took his hands. ‘We’re just waiting to make sure you’re one hundred per cent strong again first.’

‘I’m strong. Look at my muscles!’ Arnie flexed both arms, his eyes shut tight he was squeezing so hard.

‘So you are! Now, why don’t you two go and play because it’s still a few minutes until scone time.’

‘Is there cream?’ shot John.

‘Yes! Now go!’

As they ran out, Becky smiled. ‘They’re adorable. I’m sorry to hear about Arnie.’

‘Thanks. I’m just glad they’re getting time together again. It was pretty hard when Arnie was in hospital, and even when he was at home, he was often too weak to really do anything. They missed each other so much.’

‘What type of leukaemia did Arnie have?’

‘Acute lymphoblastic.’

‘How long ago?’

‘That he got ill? We had the diagnosis 3 July last year.’ She shuddered, remembering. ‘But let’s not talk about that. You want to hear about leaving London for life in the countryside.’ A buzzer went off and Grace pulled the scones out of the oven and put them on the side to cool. As she picked them off the baking tray, she wrinkled her nose. ‘They’re hard. Again! I can never seem to get this right. Ah well, we’ll just smother them with cream.’ She turned to Becky. ‘So . . . the way the air smells different, how I can just walk outside my back door and go for miles across footpaths without ever seeing a car, the hideous commute back to London . . .?’

Becky smiled and pulled out her notepad. ‘All of the above.’

She typed up her notes on the train journey home. They had nothing to do with living in the country. At some point she’d have to come clean, but she still had work to do. The evidence was there in abundance, she thought, but it wasn’t anything new. Not yet. She still needed to uncover something no one had found yet – something watertight. It would make the article like dynamite. Becky shivered a little as she contemplated the potential repercussions. But wasn’t that what the best investigative journalism was all about? Holding unsavoury people to account? If she could find what she wanted, Terence wouldn’t be able to pick holes in her story, in fact he’d be dazzled by what she’d achieved. Then she’d be able to tell Grace and the others what she was writing about. And she’d be offered the job.

For a moment, Becky imagined telling her mum. She’d take her out for dinner, maybe somewhere quite posh – posh for them anyway – and she’d buy some proper champagne. She’d watch her mum’s face as she told her the news; that she was going to be the new reporter at the Herald. Mum, this is all because of you, she’d say. Because of everything you’ve done for me over the years.

Becky pulled herself out of her reverie and read back over what she’d written. It all seemed complete, accurate, except for one thing. She’d deliberately changed the names.