I think of Adam. What is his background? His story? I know nothing about him, other than that he’s a brooding, abrupt man to whom I’ve taken an immediate dislike, even though I can’t put my finger on why. I’m sure he’s hiding something. How could Heather have ended up with someone like him?

But still. Jack’s theory does sound a bit far-fetched. I can’t imagine Margot would let her caravan park be used as a front for criminal activity. But I don’t want to burst Jack’s bubble.

‘This could be a good story, Jess. It’s only Thursday,’ continues Jack, eagerly. ‘We’ve got until Monday lunchtime to find out more before the deadline for Tuesday’s paper.’

I suppress a sigh. Jack looks like an eager puppy, but then I remind myself this is probably the biggest story he’s ever worked on. He’s hungry for it. I can’t blame him for that. ‘Like what?’

He flops back in his chair. ‘I don’t know. You’re the reporter. I’m just saying it looks dodgy. Clive had enemies. This card implies that someone isn’t surprised he’s dead.’

I hold up my hands in mock-surrender. ‘Okay, okay, I get your point. I’ll talk to Ted and see what he suggests.’ I glance across the desk at my mobile. It’s disappointingly quiet. I’d been hoping Margot would call. I’d thought I was getting somewhere yesterday. I bet Adam talked her out of speaking to me.

I get up from my seat while Jack scoots his chair back to his own desk, a self-satisfied smile on his face at the thought we might get to play detective. I sometimes wonder why he didn’t go into the police force, like his boyfriend.

I stand at the threshold to Ted’s ‘office’ and, when he doesn’t look up from his computer, I clear my throat.

‘Yep,’ he says, still not looking at me.

I push the card across his desk, explaining where I found it. He glances at it, then at me, interest registering on his usually cynical features. ‘You know you’ll have to give this to the police.’

I nod.

‘We can’t withhold any evidence, Jess. You know that, right?’

I blink, my cheeks hot. Does he think I’ve learned nothing from what happened at the Tribune? ‘Of course,’ I mutter. ‘I don’t know why I took it, really.’

‘You could have just snapped it with your phone,’ he says, watching me carefully.

‘Yes.’

‘Can you drop it over to Bridewell? But take a photo of it first. All right?’ He pushes the card towards me, then turns his attention back to his computer screen. I slink out of the room as though I’m a naughty schoolgirl who’s been sent to the headmaster’s office.