I had thought too about contacting Reggie to tell her about the dead cats, as she’d clearly been fascinated by what was happening in our home. She’d texted me the day after her visit asking if she’d left her designer bandana behind, but there was no sign of it so I assumed she must have dropped it on the road or something. She had said flippantly that she’d just have to get Akhmad to buy her another one. I hadn’t heard anything from her since. I wondered, too, how things actually were between her and Akhmad, and whether he’d got wind of the fact that he had competition. I tried her mobile, but it went straight to voicemail. Maybe she was on location somewhere. I left a brief message saying it was nothing urgent, and hung up.

Now that the house was quiet once more, I needed to polish my article about Avoncote so that I could finish it before the deadline, which was looming. I’d managed to negotiate an extension to the original submission date with my contact at the magazine, who said it would be a shame to miss the Halloween issue but if I couldn’t manage it, they would print it in the subsequent edition. I was extremely grateful. I hadn’t dared admit I’d been stupid enough not to have my work backed up. I felt a bit guilty about it, but fibbed, saying that I’d been unwell due to my pregnancy. It was a lesson well learned.

Thankfully, I felt less tired and more focused for once. I worked all morning and, having made good progress, was almost ready to hit ‘send’ to the editor I had been liaising with at the magazine. I felt quite elated, but decided to pause for a sandwich before a final proofread, with the intention of submitting it by the end of the afternoon.

I cleared up after lunch, and was sitting on the settee finishing a mug of tea before resuming work. It was a still, mellow afternoon. I looked out into the garden and could see Mrs Barley in the summer house. She looked deep in thought.

My mobile rang, and Reggie’s name flashed on the screen.

‘Hey, you! I tried to reach you earlier …’ I was cut off in mid-sentence by a quavering male voice.

‘Stina, this is Luc.’

My innards clenched and a shiver of dread passed through me.

‘Luc? What’s happened? Is Reggie okay?’

There was a horrible silence, then he emitted a strangled sob. ‘Reggie’s … gone. She’s dead.’

I felt as if I had been punched. My head began to swim. The mug fell from my hand, smashing on the hearth.

‘What d’you mean? No, no she can’t be. Oh God, has there been an accident? This can’t be happening.’ I wanted to be sick.