An hour later, Lance arrived outside Rebecca’s house – half his by rights, of course. He paused before getting out of the car. Looking up at the windows, he wondered if anyone was actually in. There were no vehicles in the drive, so he assumed no one was at home unless of course a car was parked in the garage. But who parks their motor inside a garage these days? he thought.

After he stepped out, he slammed the door shut and marched to the front door. He rapped the brass knocker hard and waited briefly before, impatiently, he knocked again.

The door was eventually pulled open by a very distraught-looking Rebecca. Lance looked her up and down and had to blink; the woman was a complete and utter mess. Her hair was dishevelled, the bags under her eyes had aged her by ten years, and her breath reeked of stale wine. Hastily, Lance stepped back. ‘Something on your mind?’ he sniped viciously.

Her sore eyes narrowed. ‘No . . . er . . . what are you doing here?’

He didn’t answer but stepped forward. The sheer size of him automatically made her retreat slightly.

Without being invited in, he walked ahead straight into the kitchen, with Rebecca following.

‘Lance, what are you doing here?’ she repeated.

‘Where’s Alastair?’ His voice demanded an answer.

‘I don’t know. He’s probably at work. Why? What’s it to you?’

Lance just stood there, staring at her unblinkingly and impassively. A chill began its way up her spine. She couldn’t explain why, though. She averted her eyes and he peered out at the back garden.

‘Look, what’s going on here, Lance? You can’t just push your way into my home like this.’

He spun around and towered over her. ‘Lady, I can do whatever the fuck I like. This is still half my house, as I’ve told you time and time again.’

Her jaw clenched tight, and she laced her words with venom. ‘That may be so, but it’s not your home. It’s mine, so get out, Lance!’

Lance leaned against the worktop and folded his arms across his broad chest. Once again, he gave her that stare and followed it up with a mocking grin.

His whole mien was winding her up. He was the last person she needed to see right now; she had enough bloody problems of her own. What with Alastair, Brooke, and Poppy all missing – she was going out of her mind with worry.

‘Where’s Poppy?’ The question was spat out, like an Exocet missile.

The frustration and stress on her face were both replaced with confusion and fear. ‘I . . . I . . . don’t know.’

‘And Brooke?’

She felt her stomach churning. Did he know something she didn’t? ‘I don’t know about her either. Why? What’s going on?’

‘Rebecca, you need to tell me where Alastair is. Like right now!’ he bellowed.