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thirty-five again. The rest of it seems reliable, though. I thought you might want to get a copy. I’ll keep mine in case you can’t. See you Saturday, I hope. ’Bye.’
    Nine thirty, just gone. She wasn’t going out again. If she wanted to see the paper she could pick one up in the morning. She wasn’t too excited about making the front page. Finding a body on a beach wasn’t much of an achievement, not like swimming the channel or rescuing someone from a blazing building. Any fool could stumble over a body.
    She regretted being economical with her age to the reporter. Gemma was right. Twenty-nine was pushing it. Why did newspapers always want to know your age, as if it mattered? The people at work were going to have a ball. Twenty-nine and counting, they would say.
    As she cooked herself a late supper of a mushroom omelette, she had a mental picture of her father alone at home with his cheese sandwich. She was still thinking what a mean cow she was when the smoke alarm went off. The omelette was burning. All in all, this hadn’t been one of her better days.

three
    A REGULAR AT THE garden centre was Miss Peabody, a white-haired, straight-backed woman always in the same pink hat like a huge scoop of strawberry ice cream on top of her head. She was in each day shortly after opening time, but emphatically a visitor rather than a customer. None of the staff could recall her buying anything. Her routine was to wander the aisles noticing plants that were ailing. ‘I know about plants,’ she would say to whichever of the staff she could buttonhole, ‘and you’ve got pansy wilt. Come and see.’ She was usually right, but on a busy morning when a consignment of bulbs had to be checked and bagged up, pansy wilt wasn’t a high priority. Adrian, the manager, advised the staff to treat the old lady with courtesy and find a reason to move away. He said he couldn’t ask her to leave. She lived just down the road in Singleton and regarded the garden centre as an extension of her own small garden.
    This Monday morning, she’d crept up behind Jo.
    ‘Did you know you’ve got black spot?’
    Jo dropped the trowel she was using. ‘For crying out loud! You gave me a start, Miss Peabody.’
    ‘Black spot, my dear, on your heart’s desire. Do you want me to show you?’
    ‘If it’s there, Miss Peabody, we’ll deal with it.’
    ‘You shouldn’t have let the fallen leaves lie there. It’s a fungus and they’re spreading it.’
    ‘The roses aren’t really my responsibility, but I’ll pass it on. Oops, I’ve just remembered I should have made a phone call. Excuse me.’
    Jo started walking fast, too fast for Miss Peabody. Any direction would do.
    She hadn’t gone far when something else brought her to a stop like a cartoon cat. A man in a black leather coat striding up the next aisle. Was it wishful thinking that he was unusually tall? He was in sight for a moment, then hidden behind the camellia display. Automatically her hand went to her hair and checked it. She wasn’t certain this was Jake, but she’d be an idiot not to find out.
    At the end of the row she slowed to a dignified walk. Karen, one of the sales staff, was with the man. From the back he looked right. He was tall enough. Please God, she thought. And Karen was clearly having difficulty understanding him.
    As if by telepathy, he turned, blinked, frowned, and gave that lopsided smile that made him look as if he’d come from a session at the dentist’s.
    Heart pounding, she stepped closer. ‘This gentleman is a friend of mine, Karen. May I help?’
    ‘Please do.’ For Karen it was as good as the U.S. cavalry arriving. ‘We’ve established that he wants some plant labels. I was about to show him the range, but if you’d like to . . . ’ She was round that display stand and out of sight before finishing the sentence.
    ‘This is a surprise, Jake.’
    The big man shrugged, but it was a friendly shrug. If nothing else, he remembered her.
    ‘You