One day, not long after she’d last seen him, a woman had come into the pub. Much older than Maddy, like twice her age maybe, but there was something about her that made you look. She was stick-thin, lucky cow, and had long dark hair, dyed probably, but shiny and rich. She wore an ankle-length printed green dress and a floppy hat and sunglasses, and in a posh sort of voice, like an actress or something, she had asked after Patrick.

Maddy had been on red alert right away. Wife, her senses were telling her, even though she couldn’t have said where she’d learned this. This was his wife. But the name was wrong. ‘Patrick who?’

The woman had placed her sunglasses on the bar, so Maddy could see her grey eyes. ‘Patrick Sullivan.’

‘Oh?’ Maddy’s neck was prickling. ‘I don’t know any Patrick.’

‘He could be calling himself something else. I need to get in touch with him about an inheritance. He could be rather a rich man, if I can just find him.’

Maddy had remembered what he’d told her, that he was strapped for cash, and if he wasn’t he’d take her away from all this, to live in Paris or New York or even London. Just somewhere . . . better. But he was Sean, not Patrick. He wouldn’t have lied about that, would he? ‘Sorry.’ She shrugged.

The woman’s gaze was like a laser. ‘You’re sure?’

‘Yeah.’

Ever since then she’d been kicking herself. What if it really was an inheritance? Had she lost her chance to help him, and had he somehow found out, and that was why he’d ditched her? That was stupid. No, it was far more likely the woman had found him through someone else – La Tornada was a small place, after all – and then he’d done what he’d said and buggered off to somewhere better, only not with her.

There was a rustle of the fly curtain and her dad came in, huffing and puffing in his old-man shorts, his belly rounded under his England top. That was what years working in a pub, sampling the wares, did to you. Maddy resolved once again to get out, move back to England, find a proper job. Start her life.

‘Seen the commotion, love?’

‘What commotion?’ said Maddy, bored stiff. It was probably a sale on grappa or a donkey stuck in an alley again. God, she hated this place.

‘They found a body down in them harbour flats! Some accident with the gas stove, carbon monoxide got ’im. He’s been there weeks!’ Her dad seemed excited at this news. Immediately, Maddy’s heart began to race. It couldn’t be. No. But it would explain . . .