LITMIR.BIZ

       DAY ONE: LATE EVENING

      Alex hunched into her coat and pushed one hand as far down into a pocket as she could. The other held her phone with the torch light on so she could see her way. The weather had turned from clearsky cold to stormy in the time she had been at the charity event. If she looked at the ground, the wind wouldn’t whip across her skin. The stars were hiding behind furiously dark clouds.

      It hadn’t been her greatest idea. To attempt to order a taxi to come to the middle of nowhere on a weekday night. Or any night, thinking about it. It wasn’t as if she could call an Uber, or that there was a plethora of taxi firms in the area. The two firms that did answer her call said they were too busy. Alex imagined them shaking their heads ruefully as they put the phone down.

      Why hadn’t she ordered one earlier?

      Because she hadn’t realized she would need one.

      So she began to walk, reasoning that it wasn’t too far to Woodbridge. And when she got a decent signal again, she would give one of the taxi firms who hadn’t picked up another try. Or, when she reached the Dog and Partridge, where she’d had supper with David, she might be able to persuade the owner’s student son to take her home for a bit of cash.

      On reflection, perhaps she should have let Jamie Rider drive her home. Still, she’d had a lucky escape from David. Where had that mauling come from? She hadn’t encouraged him; there was no way she was even interested in him. Or anyone, for that matter, especially now her life was coming together at last. She didn’t feel as though she was being buffeted by the winds of chance any more and was finally feeling at peace with herself. The guilt that had weighed so heavily on her for years had lifted. She had a new start. Finally, she knew she deserved it.

      All she needed now was a juicy story to get her teeth into. It was all very well having a bestselling book – and she wasn’t complaining, it had bought her independence as well as the new flat – but she did want to be taken seriously. She’d been writing features for The Post for a long time now. She wanted something else, something worth doing. She’d had a taste of it eighteen months ago when she was delving into the proliferation of suicide forums on the Internet and the financial shenanigans of the previous editor and owner of the newspaper. She’d enjoyed writing that copy.

      The rain began to fall, gently at first, then it came on harder, running icily down the back of her neck. Damn. She was going to get properly wet now. And cold. She tried to protect her phone. It would be the last straw if that was ruined. And her feet were hurting. Those damn heels. Why hadn’t she brought flat pumps to change into? Because she hadn’t thought she was going to have to walk home, had she?

      She had talked to Heath about more work, about her desire to be taken more seriously. Heath, whose looks, charm and inherited wealth belied a sharp operator, was the owner of The Post as well as its news editor. He wanted to be hands-on, he’d told Alex during one of her rare visits to London. She had told him she wanted more excitement in her working life. He’d stretched out his long legs, pushed his floppy fringe out of his eyes and said, ‘Well, you don’t want a staff job on The Post, I know that. Don’t sit around moaning, Alex. You’re a freelance, a self-starter, even if you do have enough money at the moment. It might not always be like that. You call yourself an investigative journalist, so get out there and find something to investigate.’

      Tough love.

      For a few days she’d been hurt, resentful, but she knew he was right – damn him. It was up to her to find stories, to get stuck into something.

      Her phone buzzed. She peered at the screen. Her sister. Her heart used to sink when she got a call from her, but now it was like being phoned by someone – ordinary, was that the word? Probably not. Normal? What was normal these days? What she meant was that she didn’t go into worry mode as soon as her sister’s name cropped up on her phone. Or in conversation.

      ‘Hey, how’re you doing, Sasha? It’s a bit late.’

      Though she knew her sister didn’t sleep much, not these days. She might be stable, her mental health issues on an even keel, but sleep was the one thing that eluded her. Too many thoughts in her head, she’d told Alex. Too many regrets.

      ‘Alex, guess what?’ Her sister was bubbling with excitement. No preamble. ‘There are critics coming up from London for my exhibition. Real-life critics want to view my paintings. Mine! What if they don’t like them? They might hate them. You will be at the preview, won’t you? You will be there?’ Her words came rushing out, tumbling over each other.

      ‘Whoa, slow down, Sasha,’ said Alex, smiling at the sheer joy in her sister’s voice. ‘Of course I’ll be there. It’s at that swish gallery in Gisford, isn’t it? I’m not far from it now, actually.’

      ‘Really? Is that where the charity do was then?’

      ‘Nearby. A big farm. Big landowners. Pots of money.’

      ‘I know the ones. Pierre told me about them.’

      ‘Pierre?’ Alex grinned even though Sasha

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