She stood looking at it for a minute, willing Jack to reply. Then, with a grunt of frustration, she peeled off her wet coat and hung it over the newel post, kicked off her water-stained muddy kitten heels and padded into the kitchen leaving wet footprints behind her on the wooden floor.

The collar of her shirt and bottom of her trousers were wet through but she ignored both, lowering herself onto the sofa and looking around the room. She would have to sell some stuff. The car. They’d paid cash for the BMW, using both their Christmas bonuses and some of their savings over a year ago to buy it. The mileage was very low, she might get 30K for it and be able to pay off the arrears and reduce some of the credit card debt. She shut her eyes, remembering she’d yet to arrange to get the car back.

She considered what else she could do. There was some jewellery she could sell. Her eyes dropped to her diamond engagement ring. That too would go. Whatever it took to keep the house from being repossessed. They could manage the three grand a month repayment on the mortgage, if they cut back on everything. No more weekends away in expensive hotels, no more five-star holidays. No more designer clothes.

If Jack lost his job? She still had no idea what that was all about. She wasn’t a fool, it had to be linked to his gambling. If it were, if he lost his job, then it would be a struggle. She could almost cover the mortgage with what she took home, but it left nothing for bills, food. She really needed to talk to Jack. Picking up her phone, she checked for messages before ringing him. As before, it went straight to answerphone.

With a grunt of frustration, she dropped it onto the table and swung her legs up onto the sofa. The stress, the pain, everything was wearing her down. She was exhausted. Closing her eyes, she fell into a restless sleep where burly men broke down her door shouting that they owned the house.

It was the doorbell that woke her, and panic shot through her until common sense kicked in. Burly bailiffs wouldn’t be calling quite yet. Checking the time, she realised she’d slept for a while. It was four, the doorbell was probably the police. She pushed up from off the sofa and walked into the hallway like a decrepit old woman; although the pain wasn’t as severe, every part of her continued to ache. But she’d suffer the pain, she needed her wits about her.

The doorbell rang again, the sound resonating as her hand reached for the knob. She turned it and pulled the door open. As she guessed, it was DI Fanshawe and his less-than-welcome sergeant. Standing back, she waved them inside. ‘Go straight through,’ she said, shutting the door.