Stacey rinses the conditioner from her hair. The police may believe her for now, but she doesn’t kid herself she’s out of the woods yet. Millie Downton is a dangerous woman, and she’s not just going to leave things as they are. Stacey’s glad Archie is safely away at school, out of Millie’s reach.

The hot water is starting to turn tepid, so she finally turns off the shower and gropes for a towel. She needs to be proactive now. She’s losing control of events, and she has to turn that around. She’s got to work out Millie’s next move, and be one step ahead. She can’t rely on the police to do it for her.

She knots the towel around her, and pads into her bedroom.

The next thing she knows, someone has grabbed her from behind and is flinging her facedown onto the bed.

chapter 53

millie

‘There’s no point screaming,’ I tell Stacey as I twist her right arm behind her and press my knee into the centre of her back. ‘No one will hear.’

She doesn’t struggle. She turns her head sideways on the duvet so she can speak. And breathe. ‘Are you here to kill me or talk to me?’ she says.

‘I’m still deciding.’

‘Well, while you do that, can you let me up?’

‘Are you going to try anything stupid?’

‘I think you can see I don’t have a weapon,’ she says dryly.

I release her and climb off the bed, keeping a sharp eye out in case she lunges for one of the heavy lamps on the bedside tables.

Stacey rolls cautiously onto her back and then pushes herself into a sitting position, holding the white fluffy bath towel around her chest to protect her modesty. ‘How did you get into my house?’

‘The same way I did when you asked me to break into your husband’s study,’ I say. ‘You might want to actually use that expensive alarm system of yours now and again.’

Stacey smooths her wet hair back from her face with the palm of one hand. I can see her weighing up her options: she can’t outrun me, and one glance at the nearest bedside table tells her I have her phone. She must know I’d beat her in a fight. I work out every day, and years of broadcasting from a sofa have made her soft and weak.

‘Are you going to tell me why you’re here?’ she asks.

‘Really? We have to play that game?’

‘What game?’

I fold my arms, and lean against the mahogany and wicker chest of drawers behind me. John Hutton for Donghia, if I’m not mistaken. She won’t have got much change from twenty thousand pounds.