It had taken him a long time to accept the hint that, sweet as he was, she just wasn’t interested. He’d got a first-class honours in chemical engineering and had asked if he could take her number at the ceremony afterwards. Becky was ashamed to say, she’d given him a false one.

Nosiness – that natural journalist’s instinct – made her click on the email. She opened up Facebook. There he was, bespectacled, with floppy reddish-blond hair, a dimple in his chin. So, he’s managed to track me down, she thought ruefully. She didn’t have the heart to reject the request, so she just ignored it. Bye bye, Adam. About to close the site, her eye suddenly landed on something and her heart leapt. That logo. It was the second time she’d seen it that day. Goosebumps rose on her arms as she scanned the page. Oh my God, he was a Research and Development assistant at Senerix Agrochemicals. Oh happy, happy lucky day! This was one of those rare pieces of luck that Terence called ‘journalist’s gold’. Should she accept? What would Terence do? He’d go for the story, obviously. And then there was Piers – she had to beat Piers.

Becky clicked on ‘accept friend request’ and then started to write a friendly ‘It’s been so long’ message.

TWENTY

In the farmhouse kitchen, Justin turned up the thermostat then went back to his laptop. He was almost done with his monthly management report. It had been a long, drawn-out day, starting with that girl who’d ambushed him first thing in the morning. Becky, he thought, letting the name become familiar in his head. His mouth twitched into a smile: he’d liked her sparkiness, had fancied her if he was honest. Could’ve chatted her up if she hadn’t gone banging on about that eco-warrior stuff. Maybe she’d come back. He rather hoped she would. She’d said she worked for a decent paper. It was unlikely to turn into anything, but he’d better mention it. He went back to the keyboard and typed in a short sentence and then sent the report.

It was still dark when he got up the next morning, and cold enough that his breath came in clouds in the bedroom. He threw a fleece over his pyjamas and knew he’d need coffee to start the day.

As he jogged down the stairs, he thought he heard a sound below him and slowed up, listening carefully, muscles tense. Then, from the hallway, he saw a light on in the kitchen. He stopped in his tracks, braced himself for an intruder. Whoever was in there started to whistle. Something bright and jolly.

Justin stepped into the room and was greeted by the sight of a tall, thick-set man with a horseshoe moustache.

‘Good morning!’ said the man, speaking with a strong eastern-European accent. ‘Coffee?’

Astounded, Justin looked around and saw that the man had boiled the kettle and was pouring water into two steaming mugs. There was something very discombobulating about a bulky man in black leathers stirring the contents of a mug as if for all the world he were working in a tea shop.