Michael Clay looked at his daughter. ‘I know how you feel about this, Erin. I realize you don’t approve.’

‘No. And I’m not going to pretend otherwise.’

Erin tried hard to control her feelings. She knew that getting angry wouldn’t do any good. Her father could be very stubborn when he got an idea into his head. For a middle-aged accountant, he was remarkably headstrong about some things. And this idea was the most ludicrous one he’d ever had, as far as Erin was concerned.

As he zipped up his bag, she thought about how much he’d changed, not just since her mother had died a few years ago, but after the death of her uncle Stuart. When pancreatic cancer took his older brother last year, Michael Clay had been hit very hard. It had taken him a long time to get round to sorting out Uncle Stuart’s possessions, to sift through the memories. She could understand that, of course.

But after that, everything had seemed to happen very quickly. Her father had developed this obsession with what had happened in the past – the very dim and distant past, so far as Erin was concerned. And then this woman had appeared.

Somehow, it was worse when a man of her father’s age started to act foolishly. He’d always had such a good reputation for being careful with money, and now he seemed to have lost his head. Unsuitable business associates, doubtful enterprises, a persuasive woman with an eye for the main chance. And this trip to Derbyshire was the last straw.

‘I wish you wouldn’t go. Haven’t you done more than enough for her? Why do you have to go yourself?’

‘I need to see her,’ said Michael simply.

‘Why?’

‘To sort a few things out.’

Her heart sank when he said that. ‘What things?’

Michael smiled. ‘I’ll tell you about it when I get back.’

But Erin didn’t feel like smiling. She was starting to get more and more upset as she watched her father put on his coat and pick up his car keys. He must have seen it in her face, and felt guilty.

‘If you don’t want to keep an eye on the house for me, love, I’ll understand. I’ll ask Mrs Fletcher next door.’

‘No, it’s all right. But, Dad . . . look after yourself, please.’

‘Of course I will.’

Erin kissed him as he went to the door. Her father was trying to sound bright and breezy, as if he was just popping down to the shop for a bottle of milk. But she knew it was much more than that.

Michael Clay got into his Mercedes and waved as he turned on the drive. As she watched him go, Erin Lacey felt a tear in the corner of her eye, as if she was saying goodbye to her father for ever.

Chapter Seven