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said.
    “What?”
    “Well you wouldn’t go to that much trouble for a line of coke, would you?”
    Helen was only half listening now. Another thought was picking away at her brain: If Jules was the murderer, who was the female informant? And where was she now?
    ***
    Hours later, Eva’s feet sank into the sand. She heard a noise overhead and sat forward, raising her hand to shield her eyes from the sun. The sight of the aeroplane relaxed her shoulders. Where was it heading? Bermuda maybe, or the Bahamas? The sky was a beautiful cornflower blue, brushed clear of clouds, the sun in the corner stretched down, sinking into her welcoming skin. She angled her head and looked across at the ocean. The tide was coming in, rapidly moving up the beach with every lap. She could smell the salt. It looked clear, icy, inviting…
    A peripheral sound distracted her. Tap, tap, tap. She blinked, shook her head and glanced around. Tap, tap, tap.
    Eva jumped in her car seat, abruptly awakened from her dream. Her stomach dropped.
    The man stood still, before he moved forward and proffered a card.
    She stared at the photo on the card before raising her eyes. His light brown hair had thinned, opening his widow’s peak into a half moon across the front of his head; his cheeks had sunken into hollow grooves beneath his cheekbones, but there was no doubt it was him. The card read St Anne’s Car Park Security.
    He removed the card and mimed for her to wind down the window. She wound it down slowly and stopped half way. The key was in the ignition. She quickly pressed her left foot down on the clutch, slipped the car into gear and allowed her left hand to hover over the handbrake, the right hand on the steering wheel. Any sudden movements, she thought to herself, and I’ll turn the key.
    “Miss?” His voice was loaded with a strong, Glaswegian drawl. “You can’t sleep here.” She followed his right arm which pointed to a sign about twenty metres ahead of her: Parking for two hours maximum. No camping, no sleeping. “This is a private car park,” he continued. “There’s a motel next door if you need to get some kip.” He pointed to the modern, brick motel next to the fuel station.
    Her mind switched back to the events of the night before. She remembered driving on an endless road for hours, following lights ahead of her that turned off periodically. But she kept going, not daring to stop. She remembered the fatigue setting in. The weariness overcame her as she had closed one eye to rest it, then the other. She couldn’t allow herself to sleep. Her speed slipped to 50mph. She’d opened the window and turned up the radio.
    Finally, when she’d exhausted all her reserves, she pulled into the services, intending to stop in the car park and close her eyes for five minutes before topping up with petrol and moving off again. All she needed was a power nap.
    Eva swept her eyes across the dashboard to the clock. Seven thirty in the morning. She’d slept for almost six hours. A feeling of dread crept down her back as she recalled Tuesday evening’s events.
    “Miss?”
    Eva nodded and turned over the engine. She needed to get moving, and fast.

Chapter Five
    ‘Emergency Services. Police, fire or ambulance?’
    ‘Ambulance.’
    ‘Just connecting you.’
    ‘Ambulance Service. What is your location?’
    ‘Eight Brooke Street, Hampton.’
    ‘May I take your name?’
    ‘She needs an ambulance urgently.’
    ‘Can you tell me… ’
    Click.
    Helen pressed a button on her laptop and looked across at Phillipa Hartwell. She hadn’t been at all surprised to find the manageress of Memington Hall expecting her when she arrived unannounced at nine thirty that morning. They sat in her oak panelled office where a sweet, pleasant scent filled the air from the kind of perfume that lingered when someone passed. An oil painting of a man from the eighteenth century stared at Helen from the far wall.
    “Do you recognise that voice?” Helen