I got in the Golf, fastened my seatbelt, looked through the windscreen and saw Mr White’s Daimler parked at Mr Simpkins’ gate, blocking my view of the prom. “Oh, for…!”

I got back out and stormed past the car to the end of my neighbour’s garden, and then I crouched low, peered down to the promenade and saw the green Fiat 500 parked opposite the café. It was facing me, and I reckoned that if Steph planned to pick up Mark Cooper at the Clarion office, the easiest way was to turn up Hill Street. I would duck down behind my dashboard and then wait for her to pass by again if that happened.

The prom was teeming with cars as visitors drove slowly up and down, looking for a space. The council obeyed another by-law and only allowed public parking on the promenade and the car park at the far end. The rest of Dexter Bay was Resident’s Only or People Invited by Residents or Doctors on Call. I wasn’t sure if ambulances were exempt or not.

Mr Simpkins, Mr White, Windy Miller and a few other village stalwarts regularly patrolled the streets for miscreants, noting down registration numbers and interrogating likely suspects. Few tourists risked parking on Hill Street. If they did, they found their vehicle displaying a printed notice from Mr Simpkins detailing the by-law, contraventions committed, and the punishment for said crime – eternal damnation in hell plus a severe telling off by my neighbour. And Mr Simpkins didn’t just leave the notice under the wiper blade; he pasted it onto the windscreen.

I was smiling at this thought when Steph came out of the café and stood at the kerb. I snapped to attention, reversed along the pavement, straightened up, and then a loud voice sounded right beside me:

“You there, what d’you think you’re up to?”

With a yelp, I spun around to face Mr Simpkins. His jaw dropped. “Mrs Hope. What the Dickens…?”

“Um, hello, Mr Simpkins. You haven’t seen me.” I tapped the side of my nose, winked, and then speed-walked to my car, got back in and drove down to the junction before he’d closed his mouth again.

The Fiat pulled out onto the prom, and I prepared to duck, but it went straight past and headed up Cliff Road. Damn.” I tried to follow, but several vehicles came along, forcing me to wait. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon.”

Finally, I shot out behind a VW campervan and tailgated it, muttering under my breath and willing it to find a burst of speed. We crawled towards the junction at the top, and I craned my neck to left and right, but the Fiat had disappeared. If Steph had gone to Lufton or into Poole, I had no chance of finding her. Some detective I was: I’d have to tell Paul I’d lost Steph and still had no evidence.

Hedging my best bet, I turned towards Poole and drove to the standing stones car park. There were no spaces; the good weather had brought more people out, and two groups of walkers strode past my car as I waited. Then someone pulled out of a space further up on the right, and I drove forward, reversed in, and switched off the engine. I was directly opposite the path and knew if I got out to look for Steph, she could spot me, too.

As I debated the risk, a black Golf – much newer and swankier than mine – drove into the car park and stopped. Mark Cooper was behind the wheel. I ducked down behind my sun visor and watched.

Moments later, a couple with a lively spaniel left the path and walked to a hatchback beside the reporter’s car. The man indicated they were leaving, and Mark Cooper raised a hand in thanks. The couple left, and he moved into their space. I took my phone, opened the camera app and chose the video option. Then I tugged my baseball cap lower, propped my mobile against the steering wheel and pressed ‘record’.

Mark Cooper emerged from his car, walked forward and stood in front of mine. I held my breath. And then a huge grin spread across the reporter’s face as Steph appeared, ran into his arms, and they kissed for several years. I shrank into my seat, head bowed, but I needn’t have bothered: I could have marched around the car park with a brass band and a circus parade, and they wouldn’t have noticed.

I checked the screen and held the phone steady. Finally, Steph and Mark stopped snogging, wrapped their arms around each other and walked onto the path. I followed their progress, strolling and kissing, kissing and strolling, until they disappeared from view, presumably into the woods. I stopped the recording, saved the clip, started the car, and took off. The whole thing had taken less than half an hour.

I returned to Dexter Bay, parked outside Lilac Cottage, played the video to check the quality, and texted Paul:

I have the video. What do you want me to do? x

I hoped he would suggest coming to my home to watch it, so we could deal with the consequences together. I was a part of Paul’s story, and I’d known infidelity from my own partner: until you experienced that, you had no idea what it felt like and how you might respond.

I was also rather proud of how well my filming had turned out.

Paul’s reply came almost immediately:

Would you send it?

No kiss this time. I swallowed my disappointment, clicked on ‘attachment’ and added the clip. Then I tapped ‘send’ and watched the tiny circle whirring around until it disappeared and my phone told me the video had arrived at its destination.

I waited several minutes. No reply. The café would be busy, and Paul rushed off his feet, not to mention suffering the shock of seeing his girlfriend and the reporter together. It was one thing to be told about something awful but quite another to witness it in high definition.

I removed the baseball cap, shook my hair out of the ponytail and rechecked my phone. Still nothing. Finally, I gave up waiting, got out of the car, and walked up the path. Sue and Elvis were standing together at the living room window. Sue waved, then said something to my dog, and he raised a giant front paw. I laughed and waved, then went inside to greet Elvis in person. Sue leaned against the living room door post and folded her arms. “How did it go?”

“Got the video.” I concentrated on my dog, ruffling his ears and blowing kisses at him. “Sent it to Paul.”

“What happens next?”

“I don’t know.” I sighed. “Don’t think I want to keep that clip on my phone.”

“At the risk of sounding like I approve of the whole thing; you should hang onto it - something might happen to Paul’s copy. Yours is the original, and you could always transfer it to the computer upstairs or your new laptop.”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“Yeah, I suppose that’s a – wait, what?” I frowned at Sue. “New laptop?”

“Came ten minutes ago. I put it on the table with Tim’s big ass bouquet.” Sue led the way to the kitchen and pointed to a cardboard box lying beside the vase of flowers. The package was the size of a large briefcase.

“Who brought this?” I stared, puzzled.

“Delivery van.”

“How do you know it’s a laptop?”

“I use ze leetle grey cells.” Sue twirled an imaginary moustache. “And read ze label on ze box. Eet is from a beeg PC shop een London.”

I fetched a pair of scissors, cut through the packing tape and opened one end of the box. I pulled out a slimmer cardboard box and stared at the illustration on the front.

“Eye told ewe.” Sue gave an enormous Gallic shrug.

“Thank you, Inspector Clouseau.” I pushed the smaller box back inside the larger one and examined the outside label. “No sender’s name, just the PC shop. I didn’t buy this; I don’t have the cash to spare for a new laptop. Where did it come from?”

“Would it be Alf? Part of your detective gear?”

I whistled. “Alf never said anything about a laptop: I’ll phone him.” I took the box to the living room, followed by Sue and Elvis. Elvis sniffed at the package every step of the way and then watched me open the sideboard and bring out my new mobile. I switched it on and found Alf’s number, then we all sat back down on the settee. Alf answered at the third ring.

“Hello, Marnie, trying out the new phone?”

“Alf, hi, I’m going to put you on speakerphone.” I pressed the button and set the phone on top of the laptop box on my knee. “I’m with Elvis and my friend Sue.”

“I like how you named Elvis before me,” Sue said.

“He is my detective partner,” I said.

Alf said, “Hello, Sue. Emma mentioned knowing you. Hi, Elvis. Marnie, I’ve been checking on Jeff, but there’s no sign of life so far.”

I gasped. “Wh…what? You think he’s dead?”

There was a long, ominous silence where I feared the worst – and then I remembered the Transatlantic Pause. Alf chuckled and said, “Sorry, bad choice of words. I meant there’s been no activity from him since he left. He hasn’t used his bank cards or passport, and his car hasn’t been flagged for speeding or a parking fine.”

“Oh, I said, relieved. “God knows I could have cheerfully murdered him regularly over the years, but…hang on, I didn’t give you any bank cards…oh, right, I guess that’s something I shouldn’t ask about?”

“I plead the Fifth.” Alf chuckled again.

Sue mouthed I like him.

“If he hasn’t used his passport, why did he send his girlfriend to steal it?” I asked.

“They might plan to go abroad later in the year,” Alf suggested. “Maybe he has another job or source of income, and he’s using saved cash right now.”

“He has his lottery win.” Sue made a face.

“Yeah, that would do it,” I said. “Thanks for trying anyway, Alf.”

“You’re welcome, Marnie. Was there anything else?”

“Yes. Did you send me a laptop?”

“We haven’t sent you a laptop, no. That’s quite a random question.”

“Someone sent me one from a big store in London. I don’t know who it was.”

“It’s definitely your name and address on the label?”

“Yes. That all checks out, but it doesn’t make any sense.”

“Maybe you have a mystery admirer in London.” Alf chuckled. “Noreen’s listening in; she says to let us know when you find out.”

“I will, Alf, and Noreen, thanks. Bye for now.”

“Mystery admirer in London….” I turned to Sue, and together we chorused, “Tim Benedict.”

“It’s what he would do,” I said. “I mean, he does blow hot and cold.”

“It’s a clever trick if you can do it.” Sue grinned. “You think he’s fallen madly in love with you again since last night?”

“Why not? He could have bought this and delivered it by super-fast mail or whatever they have.” I rechecked the label. “There’s no date or time. I bet it’s him – that makes sense. He’s the only person I know in London.”

“What about Jeff? He might be there.”

“Are you serious? He’s gone and left me with nothing, and he’s hardly going to buy me expensive electrical goods.”

“Maybe a twinge of conscience over the lottery win?” Sue made a face. “Sorry, what am I saying? This is Jeff. No, it must be from Tim.”

I fished out my own mobile. “I blocked his number. Hang on.” I fiddled with the settings and dialled Tim. “It’s ringing.”

“Put it on speaker.”

I pressed the speaker button and held the phone out. It stopped ringing, and a husky female voice said, “Yah?”

“Oh, er, I’m looking for Tim?”

“He’s in the shower, darling. Shall I drag him out?”

“What? No. Um.” I looked wildly at Sue as my brain scrambled to make sense of the call. Sue shrugged and made a puzzled face. “Who is this?”

“Pippa.” This was spoken with great confidence as if I should know who she was.

“I’m Marnie.”

“Well, Marnie, it’s been lovely speaking with you, but Tim is still in the shower, so I’ll tell him you called to check how clean he is. Bye, bye, darling.”

The call ended. Sue and I gaped at each other.

“Who the hell was that?” I struggled to contain my confusion and growing anger. “A girlfriend? A wife?”

“Hang on.” Sue brought Colin’s tablet back out and typed furiously. “Okay, here’s Tim’s page on the agent’s site…don’t see any mention of a wife or a Pippa.” She swiped down the screen. “Ooh, he’s been out with a few models…isn’t that the one from that poncey perfume ad?”

I craned past Elvis to look. “No idea - I’ll try the second number he called from.” I scrolled back through my phone and found the unknown mobile number Tim had used the morning before. “I blocked that as well.”

The number rang for a few seconds before a man answered with a friendly, “Hi.”

“Hello,” I said cautiously. “I’m looking for Tim Benedict, as he called me from this number yesterday. I’m Marnie.”

“Oh, yeah, Tim borrowed my phone to call someone.”

“Who are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I’m Greg. I rent Tim’s spare room.”

“Ah, yes. I just phoned Tim’s number and got some woman called Pippa.”

“Oh, is she back on the scene? Thanks for the heads up – I might stay at a mate’s tonight.”

“Back on the scene? Is she his girlfriend?”

“I can’t keep track, to be honest. But Pippa’s a massive pain - you can’t imagine.”

“Oh, I think I can. Well, thanks, Greg. Bye.”

“Bye, Melanie.”

“I’ll try the last number Tim called from.” I shuffled through my phone log for the third time. “The one he used last night.”

“Don’t tell me; you blocked that one, too.”

“Actually, no, I didn’t.” I tapped the call button, and we listened to it ringing and then:

“Yah?”

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

“Is that you, Marnie? You sound like fun, darling. We should have a threesome.”

I cut off her throaty laughter and tossed my phone onto the settee as though it had bitten me. “Tim called me from her phone, and now she’s answering his. Is he cheating on me with her or her with me? How many women does he have? Greg didn’t know – he couldn’t even remember my name.”

“I don’t know, but Pippa sounds a handful.” Sue rose to her feet. “I’m regretting the advice I gave you about having fun with Tim, and now I think you should swerve him and Paul. In fact, stay away from all men because none of them is bringing you much luck.”

“I’m beginning to agree with you.” I watched Sue gather her belongings. “You leaving?”

“I’d better get back and rescue Ian. Colin has a hospital appointment tomorrow to meet a physio. We’re making a day of it in Bournemouth – that’s if I don’t murder him halfway through.”

“Well, enjoy yourselves.” Elvis and I escorted Sue from the premises, and we hugged on the porch. “Thanks. For everything.”

“Don’t mention it. By the way, I left a bottle of wine in your fridge.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” I called after her as she fended Elvis off and slipped through the gate. He thundered back inside, and I closed the door.

Another long evening loomed ahead.

I wandered through to the kitchen, filled Elvis’s bowl with kibble and contemplated my own dinner. Nothing appealed to me, and hunger faded as I stood at the window staring at my garden and seeing Paul’s face as he’d said goodbye on the beach that morning.

Everything had seemed possible then.

Now I wasn’t so sure.

I fetched my phone and checked for messages and missed calls. Nothing. Elvis finished his dinner, looked at me and whined, and I realised he hadn’t been out for hours. “Sorry, boy.” I organised my shoulder bag with my mobile and doggy paraphernalia and slipped on a blue hoodie. “Let’s go walkies.”

When we hit the pavement, I turned away from the promenade and walked up Hill Street to the moor path. We climbed for several minutes, and then Elvis stopped for a marathon sniffing session, and I turned and looked back at the view. My head filled with memories of the previous afternoon…and that kiss. I was lost in the moment, reliving the sensation and drooling slightly when a voice hailed me.

“Mrs Hope. Marnie. Hello!”

I turned to see a figure in leggings and an oversized T-shirt with large glasses and huge, magnified eyes.

Damn.