‘Well . . .’ Angelina’s voice softened. ‘Why don’t I see if Rory is okay tomorrow and then get Lily, the babysitter he really likes, to come for a few hours in the evening? I can drive up to Norwich, meet you at the flat and we could stay in and get a takeaway?’

Julian did not feel in the mood to be won over.

‘Maybe. Let me see what I’m doing. I’ll ring you later.’

‘Oh. Okay.’

It was obvious from her voice she was upset. But then, so was he.

‘Better go. I have a client arriving any minute. Bye.’

Julian put the receiver down without waiting for her response. He knew he was behaving badly – it was obvious Angelina had to put Rory first. The problem was, would this always be the case?

In some ways it was a shame David Millar would go down for life. At least in the past, Angelina had managed to palm the kid off onto his father every other weekend. Now, especially if she did the mamby-pamby Mummy thing and sent him to a day school, they’d be stuck with him all the time.

Seeing he still had fifteen minutes before his client arrived, Julian logged on to check his emails.

He saw one of them was a reply to the message he had sent yesterday.

And his blood ran cold as he read it.

He heard the buzzer ring.

‘Hello?’

The voice sounded muffled.

‘Just push the door and come up to the second floor. I’ll be waiting for you there.’

Julian logged out of his email and headed to reception to greet his client.

Having made sure one of Roland’s boys would keep David Millar’s cottage under surveillance for the night, just in case, Jazz had driven home.

She shivered uncontrollably as she stood in her underwear with her head under the kitchen sink tap, freezing water cascading over her shampooed hair.

She wrapped her hair in a towel and ran into the sitting room to huddle by the fire, teeth chattering.

The plumber had promised her she should have hot water and heating by tomorrow, but if she didn’t, Jazz knew she’d have to decamp to a hotel. The temperature had dropped dramatically in the last two days and the heavy skies indicated snow was threatening. The entire upstairs had no electricity and her bedroom was like an ice box. Snuggling down under layers of quilts and reading by candlelight sounded romantic, but in reality, waking up in the middle of the night, needing the loo and groping round for a torch, then falling over toolboxes, to arrive back in bed so cold she couldn’t get back to sleep, was not.

Jazz did her best to dry her thick curls with the heat from the fire, unable to stand the thought of rooting around for a dryer upstairs in the dark, and decided tonight she’d sleep on the sofa, where at least she’d be warm.

Pulling on a pair of jeans, a thick jumper and applying a little mascara and lipstick to her face, Jazz left the cottage and got into her car.