This is all the evidence David needs, surely. My heart is beating so loudly I’m convinced Nigel will be able to hear it down the phone. David will be okay. Everything’s going to be fine. If only we can stop Mike getting to Malaga.

“Nigel, sorry, Steve, are you still there?”

“Yes.” He sounds annoyed. “Mike Marshall, you said?”

“That’s right. Traveling to Malaga tonight.”

There’s a pause. And then I hear Nigel’s breathing get quicker.

“I’m sorry, Georgie, I just can’t get through. Their security measures are too complex. I’m . . .

I’m only a first stager, you might say. I haven’t really got on to the advanced stuff yet. I’m really sorry . . .”

He sounds distraught. I want to tell him that it doesn’t matter, we’ll find out another way, but I can’t think of another way.

“Are you sure? Can’t you send someone an e-mail or something?”

“Georgie, these systems are just out of my league. I’ve tried everything. I just can’t get in. Is there anything else I can do?”

“No, no, don’t worry. Look, thanks . . . Steve.”

“Yes, well. Be back at work tomorrow morning.”

I quickly hang up and grab the statements. I’ve got to get this information to David. He’ll know what to do. And even if they can’t catch Mike, at least David will be in the clear. He probably won’t ever talk to me again, but at least I won’t be responsible for ruining his life.

“Mum, help me clear up this stuff so Mike doesn’t suspect anything when he gets back.”

My mother reluctantly tears herself away from Mike’s bank statements and starts to put them in neat piles.

My mobile phone rings. It’s James. He is breathing fast. “There’s someone at the door,” he says.

“There’s someone at the sodding door, and if your description of Mike is anything to go by, it looks like him.”

My heart leaps into my mouth. “He can’t be here!” I whisper. “He’s at the office waiting for the disk.”

“No he bloody isn’t,” says James. “Get out of there quickly!”

The phone goes dead and I look at my mother with alarm. “He’s here. James says he’s outside!”

Mum looks up with alarm. I sneak up to the window to have a peek, and sure enough a cross-looking Mike is reaching for his keys. Only he can’t find them. Of course he can’t, I realize with relief. I have his keys.

He walks away from the door and I think we’re safe. But then he kneels down, and starts digging into a flower bed. He can’t have hidden a spare set of keys there, surely? He has. Oh my God. He’s coming in!

This is not looking good. If Mike comes in, it isn’t going to be easy to explain ourselves. We have broken into his house, and are stealing his papers. Mike will be in his rights to call the police, they will lock us up, and David will go to prison because he never got the information and . . .

Suddenly I hear a terrible crashing noise. Mike hears it, too, and turns away from the house.

“Quick! Hide!” I hiss, and my mother and I dive behind the sofa next to the window. On the floor I see a postcard with a flamenco dancer on the front. I pick it up. The postmark is just two days ago, from London. “Can’t wait to dance the night away in Spain. See you in Malaga!

Vanessa x.”

Malaga? Vanessa? So Mike isn’t going on his own? I rack my brain to think of a Vanessa Mike has mentioned, but I draw a blank.

And then I hear a familiar voice.

“I’m dreadfully sorry, but I think I may have driven into your car. Terrible shame. Probably going to cost the pair of us a fortune!”

It’s James! Out of the window I see the Mini crumpled into the back of Mike’s BMW, and James is bumbling around pretending to look for his insurance details while Mike stares at the damage, aghast.

My mother looks furious. “He’s been looking for an excuse to get rid of that car for ages,” she says crossly. “It’s a perfectly good run-around.”

“Mum,” I hiss, “he did it to help us out. For God’s sake!”

“Us?” Mike is shouting. “I am not paying for any fucking damage. You stupid fat bastard!”

“How dare he!” exclaims Mum. “James is not fat. He is just carrying a little excess weight, and if that insolent young man thinks he can shout abuse at James, at my husband, well, he’s got another think coming.”

She gets up as if to jump to James’s defense and I have to pull her back.

“He’ll recognize you,” I hiss. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

Stuffing the papers under my shirt, we creep out the front door and down the stairs. As James demonstrates to Mike that the damage to his car is not significant by showing how easy it is to dislodge his number plate (“See? These BMWs just don’t have the craftsmanship of other cars.

Your bumper would have fallen off on its own.”), we quickly slip out the back door.

I need to get to David quickly. I kiss my mother and jump in a cab. I have never been to David’s offices before and as the taxi draws up in front of a huge building that seems to take up an entire road, I check the address again. “Are you sure this is the right place?”

I know that David works for one of the “Big” accounting firms, but I hadn’t really expected the offices to be this big. The firm has offices all over the country, and all over the world, so I thought each one would be pretty small really.

The taxi driver grunts at me, and drives off, leaving me at the main door. The reception itself is as big as a nightclub, with paintings everywhere and clusters of leather chairs and sofas where people are sitting and having intense conversations. I walk hesitantly up to the reception desk.

“Is David Bradley here?”

One of the receptionists looks up. “Do you have an appointment with Mr. Bradley?”

“Um, no, not really,” I reply. “But if you tell him Georgie is here, I’m sure he won’t mind.”

The girl looks uncertain, but she dials a number anyway.

“Hello, this is reception. We have a Georgie downstairs for David Bradley.” There is a long pause. “I see. Okay, thank you.”

She smiles at me. “Mr. Bradley can’t see you, I’m afraid.”

“No, you don’t understand. I’m his girlfriend, Georgie Beauchamp, I really have to see him very urgently. Please call him again.”

The receptionist calls again. “Oh hello, it’s reception here again. We have a Georgie Beauchamp down here very keen to see Mr. Bradley. Ah. Okay, well, thank you.”

She looks up at me sympathetically. “I’m afraid he doesn’t want to see you,” she says softly.

My eyes start to well up. I can’t believe this. I’m being dumped by a receptionist. David hates me so much he can’t even bear to set eyes on me.

I go over to one of the leather chairs and sit down, unsure what to do next. I can’t just go, not until David has the disk. But if he won’t see me, I’m scuppered. I decide to wait. At some point David will have to leave the building, and when he does I will grab him and make him listen to me. I look at my watch. It’s two-thirty. I pick up a copy of theFT from a table in front of me and begin to read.

I’m in the middle of the TV review section when I sense someone coming toward me. I look up to see David’s glamorous partner from Rome approaching.

“Hi!” she says with a big smile. “I work with David, and I understand you wanted to see him?

I’m afraid he’s a bit tied up at the moment but I could give him a message for you if you want?”

At last, someone who can actually help me!

“The thing is,” I say, “I’ve got some information here that I need to get to him. I’d really appreciate it if you’d make sure he gets it.”

“Of course,” she says smoothly. “Why don’t you give it to me now?”

I start rummaging around in my bag. All the bits of paper are crumpled up and in a mess. But before I can organize the statements one of the receptionists interrupts us.

“Vanessa, I’ve got a call for you. Shall I put them through to your voicemail or would you like to take it here?”

The woman looks up. “Who is it?”

“Didn’t say, but he says it’s important. I wouldn’t ask, but he sounded quite determined to talk to you.”

“Fine, I’ll take it down here.” She turns back to me. “I’m sorry, the papers you were talking about—shall I take them now?”

Vanessa . . . It couldn’t be her, could it? Mike did say he had a friend at David’s firm, some woman who used to work for the police, but surely this can’t be the same Vanessa who sent the postcard, the one who’s going to Malaga with him? Vanessa is standing over me and when I look up she must notice the recognition in my eye because she flinches slightly.

It is her! At least it could easily be, and I can’t risk it. I have to think quickly—thank God I haven’t given her the disk yet.

“Actually,” trying to sound as normal as possible even though I can feel myself shaking, “why don’t you take the call? I’ve got to sort through all these papers anyway.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble. I’ll just wait while you go through them. I’m sure the call can wait.”

There is no warmth in her smile and I’m running out of excuses.

I delve back into my bag and have a brain wave. I quickly find “ring tone” on my mobile phone display and within a couple of seconds it springs into action with a piercing rendition of a Bach fugue.

“Sorry, I’m going to have to take this,” I say apologetically and seize the opportunity to move away from Vanessa.

She walks over to the reception desk reluctantly to take her call. I quickly dial David’s number on my mobile.

“Good afternoon, David Bradley’s office.”

It’s Jane. Thank God.

“Jane,” I whisper. “It’s Georgie. Look, I need to talk to David.”

“Don’t we all,” says Jane mournfully. “He’s in with the senior partner. I can’t get in to see him.

No one can. Except his new partner Vanessa. And I don’t like her much either. Only passed her exams last year apparently and already she’s a partner. Georgie, what’s all this trouble he’s in? I knew I shouldn’t have gone on holiday—”