Her body froze. Rosalind hunted for a reply, but her tongue didn’t seem to be cooperating. Why am I surprised? I already knew, didn’t I?

But knowing it and accepting it were different things. While no one had said it aloud, she could pretend it wasn’t happening. Forty years, and it’s the same damn thing all over again.

Except it wasn’t. Because Clementine was dead.

This wasn’t about Hugh cheating on her – on them. This was about murder.

Isobel didn’t seem to need a response to carry on. The floodgates were open now.

‘I told you I thought he was having an affair.’ Isobel’s hands twisted again, her forget-me-not blue eyes wet and worried. ‘Clementine … they met when Marcus first came to talk about the convention. Hugh showed her around while Marcus and I discussed menus and they were gone, well, a long time. But I thought … I thought he was being solicitous.’

‘Maybe he was.’ Even though she didn’t believe it any more than Isobel did.

‘They’ve been in contact since,’ Isobel went on, determination in the line of her jaw as she forced the words out. ‘I overheard them talking on the phone, last week. And before that … there was a voicemail on his mobile from her. I think he met up with her when he went to London last month.’

‘You’ve been checking his phone?’

‘Wouldn’t you?’

If they’d had today’s mobile technology forty years ago, Rosalind probably would have. ‘Did you ask him about it?’

‘In a roundabout way.’ Isobel gave a shrug. ‘You know what it’s like.’

Yes. She did know. Except last time it had been Isobel that Hugh had been disappearing off with behind Rosalind’s back. And then the other way around. And now …

Now a girl was dead.

‘The thing is … there’s a lot riding on this movie,’ Isobel said, and Rosalind blinked at the sudden change of subject. ‘Financially, I mean. Things are … well, the location fee for the movie would certainly help, not that Hugh will admit it. He wouldn’t approve the script, because he felt it wasn’t true to Letty’s vision, and now there’s all this.’ Isobel spread her hands wide, as if to encompass murder, adultery, financial ruin, and all the other disasters the world had to offer. ‘So you see, don’t you? Why I need you to talk to him?’

‘About the affair or the film?’ Rosalind asked, confused.

‘Both.’ The ferocity in Isobel’s eyes surprised her. ‘They’re connected, somehow. I mean, the first script really was a disaster, but he was fine with the direction of the new one until Clementine showed up. Then something changed. He changed.’