But the most interesting fact of all is that Arnold Macintyre is a fountain of Hamleigh gossip. As a result of one of his particularly fascinating titbits, I am now on Jackson Greenwood’s doorstep, dressed in my London get-up: leather boots, bottle-green culottes, and a soft cream sweater Tod bought me as a goodbye gift.

‘Hello, Eileen,’ Jackson says when he answers the door. He doesn’t seem especially surprised to see me standing on his doorstep dressed up to the nines, but then, now I think about it, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen Jackson looking surprised about anything.

‘May I come in?’ I say. It’s a little blunt, but I’m rather tight for time.

He steps aside. ‘Course you can. Would you like a tea?’

‘Yes, please.’ I make my way through to his living area, which is surprisingly tidy and well decorated. The wooden coffee table is a new addition since I was last here; there’s a book there, splayed out on its front with the spine up, called Thinking: Fast and Slow. Behind a stairgate, Hank wags ecstatically in the conservatory. I give his ears a fond scratch, careful not to let him anywhere near my lovely cream sweater.

‘Milk, one sugar,’ Jackson says, placing my mug down on a coaster as I head for the sofa. I’d never have pinned Jackson as a coaster sort of man, I must say. I run my finger over the wood of the table and reflect on just how little you can know about your neighbours, even when you are extremely nosy.

‘Ethan’s out of the picture,’ I say, once I’m sitting down.

Jackson pauses midway to the armchair. Just a momentary falter, but enough to send a trickle of tea down the side of his mug to the rug under the coffee table.

He sits down. ‘Huh,’ he says.

‘He was having an affair with Leena’s boss’s assistant.’

His hands flex convulsively. This time the tea spills in his lap – he swears quietly, getting up again to fetch a cloth from the kitchen. I wait, watching his back, wondering.

‘Leena found out?’ he asks eventually from the kitchen, still facing away from me.

‘I found out. I told her. She finished with him right away.’ I look down at my tea. ‘Adultery is one thing Leena will not tolerate.’

He looks at me then, a sympathetic glance. I don’t acknowledge it. I’m not here to talk about me and Wade.

‘I’m going down to London, to a party, and she’ll be there. I thought you might want to come.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes.’

Then Jackson sighs. ‘Arnold told you,’ he says.

‘Yes. Though I had to wring it out of the man, so don’t blame him.’

‘S’all right. Half the village knows how I feel about her anyway. But … go to London?’ Jackson says, scratching his head. ‘Isn’t that a bit much?’

‘That depends. Are there things you wish you hadn’t left unsaid?’

‘Actually, I …’ He sits down again, those giant hands wrapped around his mug until all I can see is the curl of steam rising from the tea. ‘I told her at the May Day festival. How I felt.’

‘Did you?’ This Arnold did not tell me. ‘What did she say?’

‘She said she doesn’t look at me that way.’

Hmm. That’s not Betsy’s account of things, and I trust Betsy’s eye when it comes to a brewing romance. Rumours that start with Betsy are rarely wrong.

‘I was ashamed of myself, after,’ Jackson says. ‘She’s got – she had a boyfriend.’

‘Yes, well,’ I say briskly. ‘No need to worry about that any longer, we made quick work of him.’ I reach forward and pat his arm. ‘If she doesn’t see you that way, then you need to change the way she sees you. Come to London. Wear something smart. You know how, at the pictures, when the girl gets dressed up for a party and walks down the stairs in slow motion with her glasses off and her hair up and a bit of leg showing and the man is standing at the bottom, mouth open wide, as if he can’t believe he’s never seen her that way before?’

‘Yeah?’ Jackson says.

‘You need to be that girl. Come on. Have you got a suit?’

‘A suit? I … There’s the one I wore to Davey’s funeral.’

‘You haven’t got a less … funereal option?’

‘No. I’ve got smart trousers and a shirt?’

‘That’ll do. And wash your hair, there’s half a tree in there.’

He raises an experimental hand to his head and pulls out a sprig of something evergreen. ‘Oh,’ he says.

‘Shower, get dressed, then it’s go-time. You can drive us to Daredale station in that truck of yours?’

‘Yeah, I can. I’ll … but …’ He swallows. ‘Is this a good idea?’

‘It’s an excellent idea,’ I tell him firmly. ‘Now come on. Chop, chop.’

*

Fitz kisses me on the cheek when I arrive, then double takes when he sees Jackson.

‘Is this Arnold?’ he says, clutching at his chest.

I laugh. ‘This is Jackson,’ I say. ‘Arnold’s stepson. In love with Leena,’ I add in a whisper, though it might not be as quiet as I thought it was because, behind Fitz, Martha goes oooh and before I know it, she’s grabbed Jackson’s arm and started what looks like a very personal conversation.

The party is a heaving mass of bodies; I wince despite myself at the barrage of thumping music as we move inside. We’re in a bar under the arches by Waterloo station, and the noise echoes from the high, cavernous ceiling as stylish youngsters mill about holding beer bottles.

‘Oh, bloody hell,’ Jackson mutters beside me, having escaped Martha’s well-meaning clutches. ‘This is …’

‘Don’t worry,’ I say, patting his arm. ‘If you feel out of place, just imagine how I feel.’

He looks down at me. ‘Somehow you fit right in, actually.’

‘I know,’ I say breezily. ‘I was just trying to make you feel better. Come on, let’s find Leena.’

We make an unusual pairing as we move through the crowds, one old lady and one giant young man walking arm in arm through the throng. Jackson has smartened up well, I’m pleased to see. His shirt is open at the neck and just the right fit across the shoulders, and even though he’s wearing a very battered pair of brown leather shoes, the overall effect is very impressive. Combined with the clean hair and the smart trousers, it’s all bound to get Leena’s attention.

‘Eileen?’

I turn, surprised, and am faced with the rather hunted expression of Ethan Coleman.

‘What on earth are you doing here?’ I hiss at him.

Beside me I can feel Jackson drawing up, getting even taller, even broader. It’s all very manly. I look around quickly, hoping Leena is within view, but no such luck.

‘I’m here for Leena,’ Ethan says. ‘Eileen, please, you have to understand …’

‘I have to do no such thing,’ I say, pulling on Jackson’s arm. It’s like trying to tug at concrete. ‘Come on.’

‘You’re here sniffing around after Leena, are you?’ Ethan asks Jackson, lip curling a little. ‘I thought as much when I first met you. But she’s not your type, mate. Or, rather, you’re not hers.’