‘The best chance for you is if I remain put. When they discover you’re not in Plymouth they’ll come looking here. Let’s see what kind of state they’re in after that.’

Silva nodded but she wondered if her father had slipped over into fantasy, if this wasn’t some attempt to return to a time when he was younger and fitter and a world of possibilities still lay before him.

‘Itchy’s here, Dad.’ Silva changed the subject. Her father had always liked Itchy. ‘We’ll stay over if that’s OK? Be off in the morning.’

‘Itchy?’ There was a flicker of annoyance, as if he was cross she hadn’t told him this important news straight away. The emotion of a moment ago was gone. ‘Why ever didn’t you say so, Rebecca?’

With that her father was off down the pontoon and heading for the house, shouting for Mrs Collins to bring cold beers and some of those dry-roasted peanuts they’d stocked up on at Christmas. It was all Silva could do to trot after him and wonder what it was with father–daughter relationships.

Chapter Twenty-Six

After a boozy dinner where her father and Itchy vied to tell the tallest army stories, Silva retired to one of the attic guest rooms. She lay on the bed and thought about her promise to Itchy that they’d go on the offensive. Quite how they were going to do so she had no idea. Their only chance of escaping from Haddad’s wrath would be to expose him and his dealings with the Hopes. If she could get the information her mother had discovered out into the media, then public pressure would force governments – UK, US and Saudi – to act.

She tried to sleep, but the problem wouldn’t go away and her mind was a maelstrom of competing ideas, none of which offered a solution. She wondered how her mother might have approached the problem. As a journalist she’d have gathered evidence and collated it, each piece adding to the case she would make in the story. But did Silva have all the evidence yet?

Hidden secrets.

It came to her then. The postcard of Chichester Harbour her mother had left for her.

She climbed out of bed. Her leather jacket lay over the back of a chair and the postcard was still inside one of the zip pockets. She pulled it out.

18 August

Dear Rebecca, remember the beach we used to go to here? West something or other wasn’t it? Those were happy times, good memories, a place with buried treasure and hidden secrets to be passed on from one generation to the next. I so enjoyed the many times we visited. I definitely Hope you did too. Love always and forever, Mum.