Mal would kill her if he knew what she was doing, but he’d demanded proof, and she was determined to get it. Whatever noble crap she might spout about this being a crusade for justice, the truth was more prosaic. Bye-bye backwater; hello big-time. The political scoop of the decade, if she could obtain watertight evidence – and for that, she literally had to catch him in the act. Nothing else would do.

At ground level was a small, square window. No lights showed at the rear of the house. She could squat here all night waiting for something to happen, or she could investigate what she’d been told about the basement.

A swift sprint across the well-lit garden from sunken jetty steps to rear terrace, dropping to her stomach and wriggling sideways under cover of the nearest shrubs; she caught her breath, watched the house, and waited.

Nothing happened.

No one appeared; was she alone here?

She scooped a small handful of gravel and threw with little accuracy in the direction of the window.

Waited again.

Still nothing.

No light within.

No discernible movement.

She scooped and threw another handful. Hard to aim from flat on her stomach under the lush branches, the gravel bounced off the patio and peppered the rendered side of the house with muddy blobs, fortunately liberally spattering the window too. This time, there was something; a writhing, squirming stripe of white like a worm crawling behind the glass. Then another. Rolling awkwardly onto one hip, she fumbled with her cellphone in its waterproof pouch. She snapped a series of pictures, zooming in on the last. Despite the camera lens having to focus through the plastic pocket, she could easily identify that the worm was a finger!

As she scrabbled from her hiding place, the pouch slid into the freshly dug earth, forgotten in her exhilaration. Scuttling across the lawn and crouching at the window, she tapped cautiously. More fingers, different shades of skin, hooked over the boards she now realised covered the window on the inside. Female fingers; slim, with delicate nails. Some bitten, some with coloured varnish chipped and flaking; more and more different digits poking through. Pressing against the glass, cupping her hands around her face to block out the garden lights, she could see through slits in the haphazardly affixed planks to the glint and moisture of eyes peering back at her. The swoop of long lashes.

The curve of a female cheek. Movement behind the wood. A change of observer. Different skin. An earring. The collar of an animal-print blouse. Rocking back onto her heels, she felt frantically around the window for a gap where she could slide something under the frame to prise it open. Perhaps it would be better to find a stone to smash the glass? Utterly absorbed in casting about the immediate vicinity on hands and knees for a suitably heavy rock, the crunch of shoe on gravel made her start, and whirl around. She saw legs in dark suit trousers, creases pressed to sharp points, and was about to dart crablike towards the cover of the hedge when something heavy struck repeatedly above her left ear, making her pitch forward; burning, throbbing agony spreading outward from the impact point. In the close and muggy night air, she registered the surprising cold of the sprinkler-watered lawn against her cheek, and sensed looming shadows suddenly blocking the light.

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