Which was why she’d grabbed at the chance to write an authorised biography of Wendy Bennington. It was the kind of once-in-a-lifetime opportunity which meant she’d broken off her first holiday in five years. Why she’d got the first flight back to London and had immersed herself in researching the inveterate campaigner’s astonishing life.

So where was she? Lydia peered round the empty garden as though she expected to see Wendy Bennington walk up the path. Just yesterday the older woman had sounded so enthusiastic about the project; surely she wouldn’t have gone out? And leaving a window open? No one did that any more.

Lydia sucked in her breath and considered her options. She could, of course, get back in her car and drive back up the motorway to London. Or she could go and get a coffee in Cambridge and come back in an hour or so. Either one would be an irritating waste of her time.

She pushed the bell and rattled the letterbox. Even though it didn’t seem worth doing, she bent down and shouted loudly, ‘Ms Bennington?’ Through the narrow opening she could see the green swirly patterned carpet, but nothing else. The cottage seemed completely deserted.

She half closed the plate, her fingers still on the brass. It wasn’t a voice or even a definite noise that made her pause. Perhaps it was a sixth sense that something was wrong. She called again, ‘Ms Bennington, are you there?’

Silence. And then a soft thud. Almost.

‘Hello? Hello, Ms Bennington?’

She couldn’t be absolutely certain, but she thought she heard the sound again. Not a footstep or someone falling…nothing that obvious. But something. She was almost sure of it.

Lydia straightened and shifted her briefcase into her other hand. Of course it could be nothing more exciting than a cat knocking over a waste-paper basket, but…

But if that soft noise had been the elderly lady’s attempt to attract attention she wouldn’t thank her for walking away and leaving her. Would she? She’d expect her to use her initiative…and do something. Which meant…

What?

Lydia chewed gently at the side of her mouth. It had to be worth a try at getting into the cottage through the open window. If Wendy Bennington had been taken ill…

It was possible. She might have fallen. Accidents in the home were very common, after all. If anything like that had happened, trying to get into the cottage would be the right thing to do. She glanced down at her watch, now showing twenty-five minutes past the hour.

With sudden energy, Lydia quickly walked round to the back of the cottage and stared at the small upstairs window. It was tantalisingly open. If she could just climb on to the flat roof, reaching the window would be child’s play. It didn’t look that difficult.

She glanced over her shoulder. There was no one around. No one to ask if they’d seen Wendy Bennington that morning.

There was no choice…

Lydia carefully concealed her briefcase beneath a large rhododendron and stood back to consider her options. It really wasn’t going to be difficult—as long as the flat roof was strong enough to take her weight.

She took a moment to pull a black velvet scrunchie from her jacket pocket and twist her long hair into an untidy topknot before pulling the dustbin up against the wall. Then, holding on to the drain pipe, she hoisted herself up the first few feet—just high enough to get a grip on the roof.

Easy. Well, perhaps, not easy…but easy enough. And if Wendy Bennington wasn’t home it would be just as straightforward getting out again. No one need know.

With the dexterity of the county-level gymnast she’d once been, Lydia swung her leg up and pulled herself on to the roof. If nothing else she could tell the elderly woman her home was a security disaster. Anyone could break in. Where she lived in London no one would dream of doing anything as foolish as going out and leaving a window open. You didn’t even leave your car unattended in Hammersmith for five minutes without careful thought.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

A man’s voice shot through the silence. Lydia’s hand paused on the open window, her heart somewhere in the vicinity of her throat.

‘Get down! Now.’

Startled, she turned and looked at the man standing below on the crazy paving. Tall. Handsome…in a scruffy, rough kind of a way. Mid-thirties, maybe late. It was difficult to tell.

And angry. Definitely angry. No doubt about that at all.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he repeated.