We crossed the road and walked up Hill Street.

“Okay,” I said. “You know how the prom juts out over the beach with the café on it, and behind it, there’s a tiny bit of sand?”

“Uh-huh.” Sue looked mystified.

“When I was waiting for you and Emma to cross the road, Elvis and I looked over the wall. A couple were snogging, wearing hooded sweatshirts. She had her back to me, but I saw the guy’s face. Mark Cooper.”

“The pillock from the Clarion?”

“Yes. And the woman had a bright yellow hoodie.”

I fell silent as we approached Lilac Cottage. And then Sue looked at me. “Steph had a yellow hoodie.”

“And she came in just after I saw them. I looked for someone else on the beach dressed like a giant banana, but there was no one.” I stopped at my front gate, and Elvis sniffed around the post. “I suppose it might not have been her.”

“C’mon. You thought something was going on between those two.”

“Yes…but now it looks like I was right. And it’s awkward. What do I do?”

“That explains your crack about the reporter to Steph.” Sue heaved a sigh. “You have a choice. Either forget about it and let Paul discover Steph’s cheating another way, or tell him and risk the fallout. He might shoot the messenger.”

“If I don’t say anything, I’ll have to avoid the café because I want to slap Steph.”

“Most people would –before they find out she’s cheating on Paul.” Sue glanced at her watch. “I have to get back to Colin. There’s a third scenario: you tell Paul, and Steph denies it, then it’s your word against hers.” She made a face. “Sorry, but you have to think about what’s best for you. I’d stay back and let it play out. These things have a habit of solving themselves.” She hugged Elvis, then me, and headed off up Hill Street.

Elvis and I went inside Lilac Cottage, and I drifted about, tidying up, clearing dishes and filling my dog’s food bowl. As he crunched his kibble, I made up my mind: I would say nothing and keep my eye on Steph. Then I resolved to forget about the chef and his tangled love life and think about my new job instead. I gathered the information I’d collected on Jeff and sealed it in a large brown envelope. Then I made pasta, poured a glass of wine and watched TV until bedtime.

♦♦♦

Tuesday morning began with sunlight streaming through the curtains and an anguished glance at the clock showing me I’d missed my chance of an early beach walk with Paul. I staggered to the shower and emerged sometime later, feeling slightly more human, then dressed in jeans and a Led Zeppelin T-shirt and went downstairs to let Elvis out and feed the Krays.

I switched the kettle on and was standing watching it boil when my mobile rang. I didn’t recognise the number but thought it might be Alf or Noreen, so I answered.

“Marnie. Are you okay? There’s something up with your phone.”

“Oh, for God’s…Tim. What the hell d’you want?”

“Just checking in. My audition’s in two hours, and I’m getting nervous.”

“You’ll be fine. Goodbye.” I ended the call with a vicious stab at the button. My heart was racing and my jaw taut with anger. I did some deep breathing and had just managed to relax when the phone rang again, and the same number popped up on the screen. I cut it off with another violent stab and then scrolled through settings and blocked it. “Can the man not take a hint? What is wrong with him?”

I dumped my phone on the counter and grabbed Elvis’s leash. “C’mon, we’re going out.”

We headed down to the seafront. Sea Brew was quiet and empty, and so was the beach. Elvis and I hit the sand and walked along the shore until we reached the furthest point where Paul and I had stopped the morning before. I watched my dog leaping in the shallows, jumping waves and racing back and forward, and a slow smile spread across my face.

Life was good.

And I wouldn’t let some stroppy waitress spoil it. Or a gormless actor/model with zero self-awareness and selective deafness.

“Elvis, here, boy.” I turned and began walking back, and my dog galloped past and streaked towards a small dog and its owner. “Oh, hell.”

Elvis wanted to play but the pug was having none of it and chased him away, nipping at his heels and yapping loudly. By the time I’d raced around in circles, rescued Elvis and fastened his leash back on, I was exhausted and sweaty and life wasn’t looking so good.

We trudged up the ramp beside the café and there was Steph, wiping down a table by the window. She glanced up, and we locked eyes. My look said, ‘I know you’re a two-timing bitch and I won’t say anything right now, but I’ll be keeping a close eye on you, so you’d better watch out.’

Steph’s look said, ‘I hate you.’

“Oh, hello? It’s Mrs Hope, isn’t it?”

I spun around to see Ewan Thomson smiling at me. He held out a hand for Elvis to sniff, then stroked my dog’s neck and Elvis leaned against him, transferring a ton of wet sand to Ewan’s jeans.

“Hi, Ewan,” I said. “How are you enjoying your summer job?”

“Yeah, it’s great, and Steph’s been ever so friendly and helpful?”

“Well, that’s good.” Of course, she would be nice to him – he was male. I ran out of conversation. “Have a nice day.”

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“You, too?”

Ewan walked towards the café and I returned home with Elvis and organised breakfast for us both. After two mugs of coffee, I felt human again and decided to leave early for my appointment at Alf’s bungalow and walk Elvis first. “Poo bags, leash, treats, keys, phone, bag…and something else. What is it?”

Elvis looked at me.

“The envelope with Jeff’s intel.”

I felt like a real detective as I carried the information out to the car. The feeling lasted until Elvis jumped up and grabbed the envelope and we tussled over it. “No, leave it. Leave it!”

“I hear there’s a good dog trainer in Lufton.” Mr Simpkins was standing by his front gate, holding the Daily Mail and the Clarion, and he brandished the latter. “You made the front page again.”

“Huh?” Elvis became distracted by our neighbour, and I retrieved the soggy envelope. “What front page?”

He held up that week’s copy of the Dexter Bay Clarion, and there I was with Emma, Bertie and Elvis, standing at the top of the ramp beside the café. The headline was ‘Doggy Disaster Diverted.’

Below this, a smaller headline read, ‘Demon Bowler Knocks ‘Em Dead.’ I stepped forward and peered at the photograph of Reverend Thorpe holding a trophy in each hand, with three rosettes pinned across his chest. He looked like he’d won the Grand National.

“Ah.” I backed away. “Well, got to go. Things to see, people to do.” I stuffed Elvis into the back of the Golf and jumped behind the wheel and Mr Simpkins entered his garden, shaking his head and muttering to himself.

“The day can only get better,” I told Elvis in the rear-view mirror.

I used the drive to Lufton as a mini therapy session, concentrated on good feelings about my new job, and by the time we reached Edmond Drive, I was cheerful and upbeat. I parked at the end of the street and took Elvis to a stretch of grass for a walk and sniff session, and then we strolled past the bowling green.

The clubhouse was bright and friendly with white walls and a red tiled roof, and the gardens surrounding the green were a riot of coloured blooms. I heard the gentle thunk of bowls nudging the jack gently into position and a smattering of muted applause. It was a perfect, peaceful activity on a beautiful spring morning.

My good feelings increased.

And then I heard THWACKA-THWACKA-THWACKA-CRACK and saw bowls careering in three different directions while the jack bounced off an elderly lady’s walking stick and shot into a clump of pansies. And there was the Reverend Thorpe, whooping and punching the air. He wore his purple robes with the addition of five or six crosses around his neck, including a massive silver one which I reckoned would repel a vampire at fifty paces.

As I watched, the Reverend began a victory dance along the front of the clubhouse, spinning and moonwalking and pointing to the sky. The other bowlers stood around looking at each other in dismay.

I tightened my grip on Elvis’s leash, and we hurried on.

“Number six, here we go.” Alf’s bungalow sat in a neat garden with a driveway and garage at one side and a gate in the middle. We walked up crazy paving to the front door, and I rang the doorbell, which chimed the Rockford Files theme tune.

“The day just got better,” I informed my dog, and then the door was opened by a middle-aged woman with long dark hair and a Black Sabbath T-shirt.

“Hello, fellow rock fan,” She grinned at me. “Come in.”

“Hi, you must be Noreen. This is Elvis.”

“Come on through and have some coffee.” Noreen led us to a lounge where Alf sat on a colossal leather settee. He wore black and red cowboy boots, black jeans and a black shirt with red embroidery along the lapels and cuffs: the look was Johnny Cash by Hugh Hefner. A coffee table held mugs and plates of cakes. “There are treats for Elvis, too.”

“This is lovely, thanks.” I flopped down next to Alf. Elvis sat on the floor beside us, eyeing the cakes as Noreen poured coffee and directed us towards Victoria sponge and chocolate slices. Alf piled his plate high and looked at me.

“Are you ready to start next Monday?”

“Absolutely,” I said through a mouthful of cake.

“Jamie’s working out his last week,” Noreen said.

“Is Jamie your assistant?” I asked, and Noreen nodded. “Why is he leaving?”

Alf gave me a long, serious look. “He was shot in the line of duty.”

“What?” I paused with a slice of cake halfway to my mouth. Some of it fell to the floor, and Elvis pounced.

“Oh, Alf.” Noreen chided her husband. “He’s having you on, Marnie. Jamie’s girlfriend got a job in Birmingham, and he’s moving there.”

Alf sniffed. “Think I’d rather be shot.”

“That could be arranged.” Noreen rolled her eyes.

I was enjoying myself. The room was old-fashioned and quirky, the walls filled with framed movie posters interspersed with family photographs. The television was almost obscured by dragon ornaments.

Noreen asked me about life in Dexter Bay and chatted about their garden and the neighbours and the scandal of Reverend Thorpe winning every prize going at the bowling club. “It’s almost like he has Divine help.” She grinned over her coffee mug.

“Or he’s in league with the devil,” Alf said.

I glanced at Elvis and stayed quiet.

When we finished our coffee, Alf suggested moving to the operations centre. This turned out to be their backroom; the walls panelled in pine like a Swedish sauna after a makeover by Geek of the Year. Four computer monitors took up half the desk space, alongside keyboards, two laptops, a tablet, and a recording device bank. A printer/copier the size of my fridge sat against one wall. Noreen sat at the other wall beside a filing cabinet, and an old safe that looked like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid might have had a crack at it.

Alf saw me looking and said, “That’s where I keep my sandwiches.”

I laughed, but I wasn’t entirely sure he was joking. He handed me a box. “Take that home and play with it, get to know it. Keep it charged.”

I opened the lid and saw a new smartphone. “Oh, wow, thanks.”

“My mobile number and Noreen’s are in it, along with the base here.” Alf pointed to a phone I hadn’t noticed among the other equipment. “It’s got high-resolution cameras, same with video and good quality audio, recording and playback.” He showed me the apps loaded on the home screen. “Now, did you bring the stuff on your husband?”

“Yes.” I fished the envelope out of my bag. “Elvis tried to carry it.”

“I knew he was a helpful dog.” Alf smiled and took it from me. “Hopefully, I’ll have news for you soon.”

Noreen handed me a sheaf of papers. “Your contract.” She explained what the contract stated and how much their insurance covered. “And there’s a confidentiality clause, too. Some of our cases involve indiscretions, so we keep the details to ourselves.”

“Of course,” I said.

“We’re not the police, and we don’t have their powers,” Alf said. “Although I still have good contacts there, so we share information.” He grinned. “When it suits us.”

Noreen handed me a fountain pen, and I signed the contract, feeling excited and slightly terrified at the same time. “Do you want Elvis’s pawprint, too?”

We all looked at my dog, who was lying at Alf’s feet, sniffing the front of his left cowboy boot. Elvis stopped and stared at me. Noreen nodded. “I’ve got an idea. Hang on.” She left the room and returned with a stars and stripes bandana. “Your working clothes.” She tied the bandana around Elvis’s neck, and he abandoned Alf’s boot and twisted his nose down to sniff his new neckwear instead.

“We’re sorted.” I grinned at them both.

“Welcome aboard.” Alf shook my hand, then I shook Noreen’s, and Elvis did a high five for them both. And then, just when I thought I couldn’t feel happier, Noreen made my morning complete.

“Marnie, you and Elvis must stay for lunch.”