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family have lived in this house for seven generations,’ Lawrence said, in a voice that barely rose above a whisper – he could almost have been talking to himself. ‘We have been merchants, mayors, councillors, pillars of the establishment – centre stage in Fairbeach’s long and illustrious history.’

      Behind him the man shuffled the chair closer to the desk. Lawrence paused.

      ‘I want you to find out everything you can about this young woman who calls herself Catiana Moran. Her real name is Lillian Bliss. I don’t need to explain the need for discretion. I want everything you can get your hands on. Is that perfectly clear?’

      His guest made a noise, a low guttural sound that may or may not have been an answer.

      ‘There is an envelope on the desk with what details I already have, and your first cheque,’ continued Lawrence.

      There were two magpies cavorting on the lawn near the orchard. One hopped up onto a low branch amongst the blossoms. Two for joy. Lawrence allowed himself a thin smile.

      ‘You know, my father planted that apple tree on the day I was born.’

      His silent companion coughed. Lawrence Rawlings slipped his hands into the pockets of his tweed jacket and fingered the business card the man had sent with his brochure. ‘I think that will be all for the time being. I expect to hear from you soon. I’d like to make it clear that I am not used to this kind of thing; you are the first private detective I have ever felt the need to engage. Your card says Safeguard Associates. What should I call you?’

      ‘Milo,’ said his visitor. ‘Just call me Milo.’

      When the door closed behind his visitor, Lawrence carefully opened the window and took his garden gun from the umbrella stand.

      ‘One for sorrow,’ he said wryly, closing one eye and taking aim. The 4.10 cracked out across the still morning. There was a flurry of feathers, black and white on the dewy grass. In The Close the five-minute bell rang. Lawrence checked his watch – he would just have time to get to Communion with his daughter Sarah, Calvin and the girls, if he hurried.

      In her flat in Gunners Terrace, Dora was spooning tuna chunks onto a saucer, while something vaguely musical rattled around inside the radio. Oscar insisted she work faster, his thoughts so loud that she glared at him furiously.

      ‘Pack it in, I hear you, I hear you. Talk to the guys who decided tuna should be sold in second-hand submarines, it’s knackered my tin opener.’

      The cat narrowed his eyes and his thoughts became unrepeatable.

      Sunday mornings were quiet. Once a month Dora put flowers on an unmarked grave and then went for a girls-only lunch at Sheila’s, while her brother-in-law and their two children went fishing. On the draining board, in a milk bottle, stood a single cream rose: a fitting floral tribute.

      From the office she heard the sound of the phone and hurried to get to it before the answering machine cut in.

      At the far end of the line Calvin Roberts chuckled.

      ‘Morning, Dora. Got your message. Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner. I’m glad you liked Catiana. I got the page proofs for One Hundred and One Hot Nights yesterday. Would you mind if I popped round for a few minutes and dropped them off?’

      Dora sighed. ‘Six days shalt thou labour, Calvin. Surely a good High Church boy like you has got that tattooed somewhere significant. Haven’t you got a regular Sunday morning assignation with the Almighty?’

      Calvin snorted. ‘It’s the wife who’s the God-botherer, Dora, not me. I’m firmly aligned with Mammon, and trust me she’s not tattooed, I would have noticed. So, what shall we say? Ten minutes?’

      Dora sighed. ‘Calvin. It’s Sunday. I’m just about to go out for lunch.’

      ‘Don’t tell me – roast chicken with Sheila?’ said Calvin flatly. ‘I bet you can hardly wait.’

      Dora rolled her eyes heavenwards. Calvin definitely knew too much about her private life.

      ‘Ten minutes,’ she said, and hung up.

      Dora heard the doorbell ring just after she’d convinced herself Calvin wasn’t coming after all. She pressed the security button and was about to call him up when she heard another voice over the speaker – a low, throaty chuckle alongside Calvin’s cheerful greeting.

      ‘Have you got someone with you?’ Dora demanded, as the downstairs door opened: She waited apprehensively in the hall. Calvin, cigar in hand, pushed open the landing door. Just ahead of him, nestled in the crook of his arm, was Catiana Moran. She was wearing a pair of navy pedal pushers, cream high-heeled mules and a matching angora sweater, all wrapped around in a fake-fur jacket.

      There was a peculiar time-defying moment when Dora stared at Catiana and Catiana stared back.

      Catiana nibbled her beautifully painted lips. ‘Hello, Mrs Hall,’ she said, offering her hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

      Calvin steered the girl into the hall before Dora had chance to reply or protest.

      ‘Dora, may I present Miss Lillian Bliss or, should I say. Miss Catiana Moran.’

      Dora shook the girl’s hand, knowing full well she had her mouth open but feeling completely powerless to close it. Finally, she forced a smile and in a tight, uneven voice suggested they might be more comfortable in the sitting room.

      As Lillian shimmied through the door, Dora beaded Calvin and with a curled finger invited him to follow her into the kitchen. Still smiling he did as he was told.

      ‘I’ve got your page proofs. One Hundred and One Hot Nights, straight off the press,’ he said, clutching a padded envelope in front of his rotund little belly like a shield. Dora pushed the door to behind him.

      ‘Page proofs?’ she hissed.

      Calvin took a healthy chug on his cigar and shrugged. ‘Lillian said she’d like to see where you worked, give her a sense of her life, her background.’

      Dora stared at him. ‘Her background? What background? She doesn’t have a background, Calvin. She’s a model. You wind her up, pay her her money and send her home. We hired her so that I could keep my background to myself –’ Dora knew she was fast running out of words, they were all jammed up behind by a little scarlet flare of indignation.

      Behind them Lillian pushed the kitchen door open.

      ‘Sorry, Mrs Hall,’ she said tentatively, peering into the room. ‘I hope I’m not interrupting anything, I just wondered if I could use your loo?’

      Before Dora could answer, Calvin smiled. ‘Sure thing, sweetheart. It’s the second door on the right. Dora was just saying how nice it was to meet you. She was about to put the kettle on.’

      Dora groaned and Lillian slipped away, tip-tapping in her mules across the lino.

      ‘Sweetheart?’ Dora hissed.

      Calvin shrugged. ‘She’s a nice girl. She just wanted to come up and see where you worked. It’ll make her more real, more convincing – like method acting.’

      Dora slammed the kettle under the taps. ‘We’re talking about a model signing a few books here, Calvin, not Brando.’

      Calvin pouted. ‘Actually, that’s what I wanted to discuss.’

      Dora had a sense of foreboding. ‘Sorry?’

      Calvin dropped the envelope onto the kitchen table. ‘My phone’s been ringing off the hook since Lillian did the Steve Morley show. Regional TV want her to do a late-night slot on the Tuesday arts programme.’ He paused. ‘We just need another script. I’ve put the questions in there, they faxed them through first thing this morning.’

      Dora threw two bags into the teapot.

      ‘Another script,’ she repeated. ‘When are they going to record the programme?’

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