‘Marie looks happier than I’ve seen her in years since she bumped into Ralph again. You aren’t going to try and tell me that’s a coincidence, are you?’ She rolled her eyes at him.

‘Well . . .’

‘Rowan Jackman! Crawl out from under that stone. Ralph Enderby has fallen for Marie in a big way, and unless I’m way off the mark and don’t deserve to be called a psychologist, she’s pretty smitten too. In fact, I’m inviting them to dinner here next week so you can judge for yourself — and I can grill them.’ She looked at him smugly. ‘And no arguments.’

He held up his hands. ‘As if I’d dare!’

‘Ask her which day will suit them best, would you?’

‘Hey! This was your idea. You ring and ask.’

‘Okay, I will. I’ll cook. You’re in charge of the wine.’

But as they ate breakfast, Laura looked pensive again. ‘Honey?’ Jackman said, ‘I know you can’t talk to me, but why not ring Sam? He’s a colleague and a damned good psychologist. Don’t try to shoulder this case alone.’

‘Okay . . . maybe I will.’

‘No maybes, Laura. Talk to him.’

* * *

Sylvia Wilson awoke at seven thirty and lay back for a few minutes, luxuriating in her comfy bed. She was on a late shift at the nursery today, so she could indulge in a slow start to the day. Perhaps she’d make a drink and have half an hour with her Kindle. Then a soak in a hot bath before getting ready for work.

She looked around the room. She was planning on redecorating and still couldn’t decide on a colour. Maybe blues this time? Or lavenders? Or . . . Sylvia stared at the bedroom door. That was odd. She never closed her door at night, and it was pushed to. Not fastened, but certainly not as she had left it. A draught? Had to be. She had locked all the downstairs windows but left all the upstairs top openers partly open because of the heat. She had been out watering until almost ten o’clock, so her planters and pots of late-summer flowers wouldn’t die. A draught. Of course it was.

She pulled herself up in the bed and leaned back on the pillows. Then she froze.

Glancing down at the floor in search of her slippers, she saw a footprint.

Her gaze travelled to the windowsill. She swallowed hard. There was another! As she slept, someone had crawled in through the fanlight window, stepped right over her, leaving a muddy footprint on the duvet, and on to the floor. She stopped breathing for a moment. Then she looked over the side of the bed. On the cream carpet, a third footprint, and another, closer to the door.

Sylvia lay wringing her hands, unable to move. Oh, my God! Was he still in the house? She listened, straining her ears, but there was no sound. Slowly, she began to regain her courage. She slipped out of bed, found her slippers and dressing gown and took a couple of steps towards the door. She stopped and went back to pick up her mobile phone.