I escaped when the reporter left, but only after a tussle over payment. “It’s on the house,” Paul said.

“No, no, I couldn’t. Please.” I waved my debit card at the glass display counter.

“You want to fight about it?” Paul asked, a twinkle in his eye. “Because I think I’d win.”

I felt my face turn an attractive shade of beetroot. “Oh, er, well, if you insist, thank you.”

“I do.” Paul smiled, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. “You’re very welcome.”

“And thanks again for everything.” I risked one last glance at his face before fleeing the premises. Then I walked up the hill to Lilac Cottage as fast as possible without breaking into a jog, rushed upstairs and rebooted the computer.

This time, I searched the entire contents for clues – but came up empty. There were no saved files, deleted files or photographs, and no programs bar word processing. I sat back and frowned.

Maybe Jeff did work for MI5.

He hadn’t said where he was staying in Bournemouth, and I assumed I’d call his mobile if I needed him – I suddenly realised I hadn’t even tried that and hurried downstairs for my phone. Jeff’s number went straight to voicemail and then cut off.

I tried again, and the same thing happened.

Who else would know where he was? His boss. Of course. I didn’t have a number for Mr Bayfield, but I knew where he lived. Jeff had pointed it out one day as we drove past en route to the supermarket outside Lufton, our nearest town. “Big-ass house. Jag on the drive. Bet he’s got a butler.”

I charged out of the house and got in my trusty old VW Golf before my nerve went. Then I drove like Ayrton Senna to the Bayfields’ detached Edwardian villa, fuelled by righteous indignation and growing desperation. I parked on the curved driveway, took a deep breath, marched up to the house and rang the bell.

The door was opened, not by a butler, but by a thin woman in her mid-fifties, with steel-grey hair like a helmet, a double strand of pearls, and a sensible tweed skirt. She looked at me like I was hawking teaspoons and barked, “Yes?”

“I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs Bayfield,” I said, trying not to feel intimidated by the headmistress vibe she was giving off, “But I wondered if you know where my husband is staying?” Then I realised she had no idea who I was. “Oh, ha, ha, sorry. I’m Marnie Hope. Jeff’s wife.”

“Jeffrey Hope.” Her nostrils flared all over her face. She spat the words out, and saliva hit me on the chin.

I stepped back, a perfectly tuned engine purred to a halt behind me, and a man emerged from an E-Type Jaguar. He wore a pink and lilac diamond-patterned jumper, pale green slacks, and startlingly white shoes. I guessed he either played golf or had outrageous (and rather camp) taste in clothes.

“Good afternoon,” he said, advancing with his arm held out. “To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

We shook hands, and Mrs Bayfield snapped, “This is Jeffrey Hope’s wife.”

Mr Bayfield withdrew his hand like I had finger nits. I looked from him to his wife. “I don’t know what’s wrong here, and I only want the hotel's name.”

“I beg your pardon?” Mr Bayfield exchanged a bewildered look with the headmistress. “What hotel?”

“The one in Bournemouth where Jeff’s staying. I forgot to ask him, and he’s not answering his phone. It’s important.” I smiled, and my smile faded in the icy silence. “I assumed you’d know….”

“Why on earth would we know where that swine is?” Mrs Bayfield sprayed more saliva and watered a rose bush beside the door. “Good riddance to bad rubbish, that’s what I say.”

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I stared at her, lost for words, and then her husband took my arm and steered me gently past his wife. “Perhaps we should continue this conversation indoors.”

I was led through acres of chintz and flock wallpaper to a pink brocade chaise-longue. I sat down, then gazed at my hosts in bewilderment. “I, er, I’m not sure what’s happening.”

“That makes three of us.” Mr Bayfield sat beside his wife on a matching pink brocade settee. “Why do you think we know where your husband is?”

“Well, Jeff is your accounts manager, and he’s on one of your training courses.”

A heavy silence fell, loaded with hidden meaning, to which only I was excluded. I began to panic. Then Mr Bayfield took a deep breath and said, “Jeffrey Hope no longer works for Bayfield Engineering. He left three months ago.”

“Hunh?” My brain stalled while it roamed around this news. “No, no, that’s not…no. He’s been going to work every day.”

“I can assure you it’s true.” Mrs Bayfield rattled her pearls together with one hand while the other grasped her husband’s knee, making him wince. “And he was never a manager.”

“What?”

“He was an accountant,” Mr Bayfield said. “And not a very good one.”

“He was lazy and slipshod and almost lost valued clients; he messed up their accounts.” His wife rolled her pearls like worry beads. Clack, clack, clack. “We checked them over and found discrepancies.”

I gulped. “Discrepancies…?”

“Yes.”

“Absolutely.”

“You mean…?”

“Absolutely.”

“Yes.”

To ensure we were all on the same page, I whispered, “Jeff was…stealing money?”

“Small amounts here and there,” Mr Bayfield said. “But it added up to a fair whack. Our Board of Directors wanted the whole thing hushed up.”

“And then we were going to fire him,” Mrs Bayfield said, a gleam in her eye, “But he resigned before we could throw him out on his ear.” Clack, clack, clack.

The flocked wallpaper began to sway in and out. “Did Jeff say why he left?”

“A big lottery win. He told us where we could stick our job.” Her mouth tightened to a pinhole.

“Lottery win?” My mouth turned dry.

Clack, clack, clack.” “Yes.”

Mr Bayfield peered at me. “You’ve gone very pale. Would you like a glass of water?”

And so, for the second time that day, I sat in shock, sipping water and trying to make sense of my life. Minutes passed. Then I looked at the Bayfields, sitting side by side like Headmistress Barbie and Gay Golfer Ken, and squared my shoulders. “I had no idea about any lottery win - do you know how much it was?”

“Three-quarters of a million.”

My jaw dropped.

The couple sighed in unison. “He was fortunate we didn’t sue him for slander, never mind breach of contract and theft,” Mrs Bayfield said, suggesting she’d rather Jeff had been hung, drawn and quartered. If I’m honest, I was coming around to that idea myself. “We found out before too much damage was done and managed to reverse it.” Clack, clack, clack.

“Our company could be floated on the stock exchange, so we don’t want any scandal,” Mr Bayfield said.

“Did – did Jeff say where he might be going?” My voice shook, and my hands joined in, and I laid the glass down on a mahogany side table before I watered the Wilton.

“No.” Mrs Bayfield sniffed. “He gained our trust and then conned us. We think his references were so good because his previous employer was desperate to be rid of him.” Clack, clack, clack.

My stomach felt like it had been hollowed out. I slumped back - forgetting I was sitting on the lower end of a chaise-longue - and tipped onto the carpet, arms and legs waving in semaphore. Mrs Bayfield shrieked, there was a snapping sound, and pearls scattered around me.

“Perhaps you should leave now.” Mr Bayfield helped me to my feet, took my arm, and led me to the front door. My final view of his wife was her tweed-covered backside as she crawled around the floor, retrieving her worry beads.

“I’m so sorry about Jeff and what he did,” I said as we stopped beside my car. “He fooled me too.”

“Don’t mention it, my dear. It’s not your fault.”

“Is there…?” I hesitated, then carried on with a rush. “Is there someone called Nicola working for you?”

Mr Bayfield shook his head. “We only have four female employees, and no one is called Nicola.”

“Right, thanks.” I climbed into the Golf, fumbled with my keys, and started the engine. Jeff’s former boss stepped back into his doorway and waved as I churned up his gravel. I passed the E-Type in a blur of new tears and headed out of the wrought-iron gates, back towards Dexter Bay.

It was worse than I’d thought. The job changes and yearly moves made sense: Jeff covered his back then left those companies for new victims - presumably with decent references – until he’d won a massive amount on the lottery and abandoned Bayfield Engineering. And me.

Bournemouth was half an hour away, but I had no desire to roam the streets looking for my husband and his bit on the side, so I carried on home. Jeff probably wasn’t even in Bournemouth – that would be one more lie out of dozens.

I traipsed indoors and forced myself to cook some pasta, then ate at the kitchen table, miles away in my head, trying to get a handle on my next move.

Three-quarters of a million.

And Jeff hadn’t said a word.