There were events in her own life that had changed her outlook on things in ways that she could never have foreseen. Stephen’s death was one of them. From grief through guilt and anger, she’d been an emotional wreck for months afterwards. And there were still times, though less frequently these days, when it felt like she was taking one step forwards and two steps back. She’d managed to navigate her way through the carnage of her old life, at first with toddler steps but latterly with increasing confidence. And that had only been possible because of the help and support of those she’d had around her. She might not always show it, but she was well aware that without Jo and Margaret and of course David, she had no idea where she’d be today.

And there was another name that she could add to that list – James. Or at least until a couple of days ago she’d thought she could. She unzipped the side pocket on her rucksack and delved inside, pulling out the folded sheets of A4 paper. It was a printout of a series of emails. The same print out that she’d found when she’d been tidying up the contents of the cardboard boxes in her spare bedroom after the break-in. The name on the top of the first sheet in bold print was Stephen Hills. So there was no doubt who it had belonged to. And the email exchange was between Stephen and James Douglas – Stephen’s friend and executor. The same James who had helped guide her through the Gordian entanglements of Stephen’s financial arrangements after his death. And the same James, too, who only a few weeks ago had told her with utter certainty that he had known nothing about Stephen’s property deals.

David had been looking forward to his afternoon of freedom as he put the pedal to what little was left of the metal on his trusty Land Rover on his journey across the border into Gloucestershire. He was feeling particularly pleased with himself as he’d managed to escape the clutches of the Runt who, even as David weaved his way through the Cotswold countryside, was delivering a motivational training session designed to encourage his colleagues to ‘unleash their inner entrepreneur’. Whatever that might mean for a bunch of archaeologists who, generally speaking, had enough trouble unleashing a paper clip from the departmental stationery cupboard. Sod that for a game of soldiers on a Friday afternoon.