‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

‘He’d gone into remission last year. About the time we met Becky. But a couple of months ago he had a relapse. He’s on another course of chemo.’ Tears pricked at her eyes, but she fought them back. ‘Sorry. I feel for him . . . stuck here at home or the hospital, missing chunks of school, when John’s forging ahead. His brother,’ she explained.

‘Is he older or younger?’

‘Younger. By three minutes. John is Arnie’s twin. They’re inseparable, which makes it even harder, on both of them really, especially when Arnie just doesn’t have the energy to play. We’re waiting to hear on a donor. John wasn’t a good match; his genetic make-up is too similar. It can cause problems.’ She looked at Kate. ‘Sorry, I’ve been going on about us all the time. I’m so sorry to hear about Becky. She was fun, sparky. I liked her. So did the others.’

‘Who’s that?’

‘She got in contact with some other people in the village. Ian and Hazel Compton – they live a bit further down the lane, been here for donkey’s years. And Ben and Sunita. They’re down in Mallard’s Road. I think there might have been a couple more, too.’

Kate recognized the names from the list on the file she’d found but she said nothing. ‘Was this all for the article?’

‘Yes. Last I heard from Becky was late February. She called, said there was something important she wanted to talk to Nick and me about. We arranged for her to come down the following Monday. But . . .’

‘She died on Friday, the twenty-fourth of February.’

‘I’m really sorry.’ Grace studied her. ‘You know, you look like her. Or rather, she looked like you. Your hair.’

Kate nodded.

‘Sorry, I hope you don’t mind . . .’

Kate shook her head. ‘It’s fine. It’s nice to talk about her.’

‘You didn’t ever see it, did you? The article about how I traded accounting for baking? Becky said it was almost finished.’

‘No, she didn’t show me that one.’

‘Oh, well. Fame and fortune will have to wait.’

Kate smiled. Saw the clock – she’d been there for over an hour. ‘I’d better be going.’ She stood. ‘Thanks so much for talking to me. It’s been a comfort to know a little more about Becky’s life.’

‘No problem. I just wish I’d had a copy you could’ve read.’

Me too, thought Kate as she walked back down the drive, hiding her unsettled feeling as she waved to Arnie and Grace through the window. She thought back to the last article Becky was working on just before she died, the one she refused to talk about with her. If it was just an innocuous piece about the pleasures of living in the country, why had Becky kept it so secret?

‘It wasn’t just her,’ she said to Tim, later that evening. They were sitting at either end of the sofa, legs stretched out, Kate’s resting over Tim’s. ‘I went to see another couple, Ian and Hazel. They live in this flint cottage at the end of the lane, next to the church, just them, no kids, ever, just a cat. I kind of got the impression they’d tried for children but had been unlucky. Anyway, same thing. Becky had contacted them about her story, interviewed them, and they’d talked to her about the joys of growing their own veg. And there was the Bolton family. Bit of a shock when I knocked on the door – guy who opened it was the taxi driver.’ She giggled. ‘Think that was the second fright I’d given him that day,’ she said, recalling him starting as he saw her on the doorstop. ‘I explained to all of them why Becky had seemingly vanished.’ She paused. ‘Her reputation was important to her. I didn’t want them getting the wrong end of the stick, thinking she’d just abandoned her story.’