The Devil You Know

by Josephine Cox

Genres: General Fiction; Family Life; Historical Fiction; Sagas; Historical Romance

Synopsis

One overheard conversation. One fateful evening. A lifetime of consequences.

The Devil You Know is a turbulent and emotional saga of a woman who must outface danger to find the happiness she craves, from bestselling author Josephine Cox. Perfect for fans of Lyn Andrews and Dilly Court.

Sonny Fareham's lover - and also her boss - is the charismatic Tony Bridgeman, a successful and ruthless man who usually gets what he wants. But for Sonny, the affair that has promised a future of hope and happiness must end in desperate fear. Late one evening, Sonny overhears a private conversation between Tony Bridgeman and his wife. Only then does she realise she is in great danger.

Pregnant and afraid, Sonny flees her home to make a new life in the north of England, where she meets a gregarious and motherly new friend, Ellie Kenny. When the mysterious and handsome David Langham seems drawn to her, Sonny almost dares to believe that she could be happy again. But never far away is the one person who wants to destroy everything that she now holds dear . . .

What readers are saying about The Devil You Know:

'This was an absolutely beautiful book and was exactly as expected - love, births, deaths, happiness and sadness. I have never been disappointed with any of Josephine Cox's books' ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

'Fantastic read, could not put it down . . . Loved all the characters' ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

'A brilliant page turner with lots of twists and turns. Loved reading it' ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

'Once you start reading you won't be able to stop' ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

'Josephine Cox is my all time favourite. I have been reading her for years and I am never disappointed' ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Release date: December 23, 2010

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 261

Sample

With trembling fingers Sonny picked up the receiver for the third time. Again she hesitated. How in God’s name could she expect anyone to believe her? What she had overheard was so bizarre, so unreal, she could hardly believe it herself.

She laughed, but it was a dry harsh sound. ‘You always had a talent for picking the wrong man,’ she told her reflection in the hallway mirror, ‘but this time you’ve found the devil himself!’

A tide of emotions rippled through her as she recalled the conversation she had just heard. She was angry. Angry with him. Angry with herself. But more than that, she was desperately afraid.

Tony Bridgeman had deceived her, in a way so cruel and evil she could never have envisaged it.

Tears sprang to her eyes. Impatiently she brushed them away. ‘You should go to the police,’ she said aloud. But then she dismissed the idea. ‘They won’t believe you either. You’re not talking about being battered or raped. You haven’t been robbed or threatened, and as far as you know Mr Tony Bridgeman has never broken the law in his life.’ She spoke his name bitterly. Her expression hardened. ‘In fact, the bastard’s done nothing that would interest the police; except to plan a murder, and no one would ever believe that.’

She didn’t know which way to turn. ‘You can’t deal with this on your own, Sonny,’ she decided aloud. ‘This isn’t the age-old tale of a man choosing his wife over his lover. This is far more sinister.’

Shuddering, she glanced round, as though fearing he might be in the room, watching her. Listening.

She couldn’t understand why she hadn’t suspected anything. Dear God, she must have been blind. But then love was blind! But, oh, if she hadn’t gone there today . . .! Her heart turned over. Laughing nervously, gazing at her own image in the hall mirror, she quipped, ‘You know what they say, don’t you? Eavesdroppers never hear good of themselves.’

It was ironic. She’d gone to his house, full of excitement at the thought of their snatching a few minutes alone. She’d wanted to share her wonderful news. The news they had both been waiting for. Well, now she knew, didn’t she? Knew him for the monster he was; his wife too. She remembered how they had laughed; what they had planned. Her blood turned to ice. Even now, with the shock subsiding and her reason returning, the truth was too awful to contemplate.

She had gone to his house, her heart brimming with hope for the future. She had left in a daze, filled with dread as she drove down the road like a maniac. Funny, she thought, how love could turn to hate. But then, they did say love and hate were two sides of the same coin.

She glanced at the door. ‘Hurry, Martha,’ she muttered. Her gaze shifted back to the mirror. Her own image stared back, white-faced and stark. In the eerie silence, the insistent ticking of the grandfather clock was the only note of reassurance. The soft rhythm mingled with the beat of her own heart. And that of the child inside her.

Instinctively she laid a hand across the gentle mound of her stomach. ‘Ssh!’ In calming the unborn, she also calmed herself. ‘Think, Sonny,’ she whispered. ‘What to do? What to do?’

Frustrated, she dropped the receiver into its cradle and began pacing the floor. ‘I should go to the police,’ she muttered bitterly. Deep down she prayed she was wrong; that tomorrow would come and everything would be normal, that he would smile at her and all her fears would melt away. She thought about his smile, that wonderful handsome smile that had won her to him. ‘Evil bastard!’ In that moment she could have killed him with her bare hands. Hands that couldn’t stop trembling. Hands that had caressed every inch of his body.

Reaching into the dresser drawer, she took out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter-a slim gold lighter engraved with the words ‘To my lovely Sonny’. Impulsively she threw it to the far end of the room, where it bounced off the carpet and slid beneath the jardinière.

A shadow crossed the glazed front door. Nervously she swung round, peering through the glass. ‘Martha?’ She stepped forward, waiting. Praying it was not him. A moment passed. There was no one there. She reached into the drawer once more, groped around and swore. ‘Bugger it!’ Having thrown down the lighter, she couldn’t find any matches.

Snatching up the pack of cigarettes, she strode into the sitting room and went to the fireplace. On tiptoe she searched the high mantelpiece, her fingers creeping from one side to the other. With a sigh of relief, she took down a box of matches. While she lit the cigarette her hands shook uncontrollably. Hurry, Martha! Where was she?

Pausing a moment, she considered her options. But there was no real choice left to her. Frustrated, she seated herself in the wicker chair beside the door. This morning she had woken and thrown open the curtains to another beautiful late-spring day, happy that she was going to work, excited as a child because she would see him.

On the frequent occasions when Tony Bridgeman came into the main office he would thrill her with discreet, suggestive glances. At lunchtime they would get into their cars and drive away in different directions, to meet a few moments later in Aspley Woods. In his roomy Jaguar they would sit and talk and kiss, making plans for a future together. And often, when there were no walkers around, they would get into the back and make love. To her it was wonderful. To him it was all part of a greater plan.

Right from the first she hated all the secrecy, but he was adamant. It was ‘a necessary, but temporary, arrangement’, he said. ‘No one must know, not until I’ve made the break with Celia and we’re free to spend the rest of our lives together.’

He had promised her the world. And, like a fool, she had believed him. After all, this was his child growing inside her.

She’d desperately needed to believe in him. But on reflection, there had been many times when she’d felt misgivings. Doubting his word. Doubting his love. Little things had made her insecure. Like the time she discovered by chance that he’d ordered two dozen red roses to be delivered to his wife on their anniversary. Another time she had taken her Aunt Martha out for a birthday meal, only to see Tony and his wife hidden away in a comer, enjoying a candlelit dinner and looking for all the world like a couple madly in love. Little things. None of them betraying a deeper madness.

As the shock began to subside and the truth dawned at last, she felt incredibly weary. Sinking into the armchair by the fireside she leaned her head into her hands and closed her eyes, trying to shut out the truth, trying to decide what to do.

Desperate for Martha to come home, she went to the window and looked out. The evening was sultry. The small garden that she adored was filled with blossom; the roses intermingled, creating a breathtaking array of colour. The hydrangeas bowed beneath the weight of huge pink flowers. Two greenfinches fluttered on to the cherry tree, softly chattering to each other.

Entranced, she opened the window. The heady scent from the nicotianas filled the room. She leaned out, enjoying the late sun on her face. Startled, the greenfinches flew away. Alone again, she closed the window. The familiar cottage felt eerie and deserted. Night was closing in fast.

Agitated, she paced the floor, back and forth. Coming into the hallway she glanced at the grandfather clock. It was ten minutes past nine. ‘She should have been home by now!’

In a moment Sonny was outside, walking down the path to the white-painted gate. Her anxious eyes scoured the street. Still no sign of that homely little woman who, since her parents’ death, had been like a mother to her.

Suddenly there she was, waddling up the lane, a familiar figure in a blue linen coat and red-patterned neckerchief The colours clashed blindingly, but Martha was never one to be bothered about style or fashion. When Sonny had once tried to persuade her into something more fashionable, Martha had put her well and truly in her place. ‘I’ll wear what’s comfortable, and that’s that!’ she’d declared firmly, and experience showed she would not change her mind.

Sonny was greatly relieved to see her. A small round body with flyaway brown curls, Martha Moon was well known hereabouts. Outspoken to a fault, but with a warm, generous heart, she was loved by all who knew her. Sixty-eight years of age, she still had a naughty twinkle in her bright blue eyes and a zest for life that left others breathless.

As she approached her beloved cottage, Martha chatted to the big ginger cat strolling by her feet. ‘Come to meet me, have you?’ she asked, touching his ear with the tips of her podgy fingers. ‘I ain’t brought you nothing, so you needn’t roll your saucy eyes at me,’ she teased.

Calmed by the sight of her aunt, Sonny turned away. Leaning on the gate, she looked back at the cottage. It was a picture-postcard place, with crooked chimneys and leaning walls, lead-light windows and pretty floral curtains. Filled with old oak beams that sagged in the middle, it had been in the family for generations. Aunt Martha and her own dear mother had grown up in it. Now it was stamped with Martha’s cheerful personality and Sonny had found contentment in it. She had come to love it, just as she had come to love Martha.

A thought struck her. It would be too dangerous to stay here now and, knowing Martha, that dear soul would probably insist on coming with her. ‘It’s no good,’ she decided with a sinking heart. Much as she needed to confide in someone, she realised now it could not be Martha. ‘I can’t tell her,’ she muttered aloud. ‘I can’t ask Martha to shoulder such a responsibility.’

She was startled when a familiar voice chided, ‘Talking to yourself is a sign of madness.’

Sonny opened the gate to let her aunt in. ‘That’s not true, is it?’ She needed reassurance. Maybe it wasn’t Tony Bridgeman who was mad. Maybe it was her.

Martha’s homely face crinkled into a smile. ‘’Course it ain’t true!’ she scolded. ‘If it were, I’d be mad as a hatter. I’m always chattering to myself.’ She came through the gate. ‘Old Lizzie Trent’s been making remarks about my surname again,’ she revealed impatiently. ‘Wants to know how I came by such an unusual name as “Moon”. Says the only person she’s ever heard called Moon was hanged twenty years ago for murder, and she wouldn’t be surprised if it was a relative of mine!’

‘You two always seem to rub each other up the wrong way.’

Martha chuckled. ‘She’ll think twice in future,’ she announced proudly. ‘I told her straight . . . you’re more suited to the name than I am, Lizzie Tent, on account of you having a backside the size of a full moon!’

Happy to be home, delighted because she had dealt with the interfering busybody who wouldn’t leave her alone, and tickled pink because she’d won five pounds at bingo, she erupted in a fit of giggles. She giggled while she waddled up the path; she giggled as they went into the house; and she was still giggling while Sonny made the tea.

When, a short time later, they were seated at the old oak table in the kitchen, she told Sonny, ‘I think I’ll give up the bingo.’

Sonny argued that she said the same thing every week, and every week she went back. ‘You meet your friends there,’ she reminded her. ‘With me at work all day it’s the only chance you get for a good old chinwag.’ That was another reason why she couldn’t tell Martha the truth. If that dear soul insisted on moving from here, it would be a terrible wrench.

Martha regarded her discreetly. ‘Is everything all right?’ she asked. Like an old fox, she could smell trouble.

‘Everything’s fine,’ Sonny lied, but she felt the flush of guilt creep up her neck.

‘That’s good.’ Sensing Sonny’s anxiety, but waiting for her to confide in her own good time, Martha talked about this and that, none of it important. ‘Did you have a good day at work?’ she asked eventually.

‘Busy.’

‘You like your work, don’t you?’ Martha had an idea what was worrying her niece. In fact she’d noticed it for some time now.

‘It’s a job, that’s all.’

Martha wisely made no reply. Instead she sipped her tea, observing Sonny through worried blue eyes. ‘A penny for them,’ she said cheerfully.

Sonny painted on a smile. If she thought it hid the heartache beneath, she was wrong.

While Martha chatted, Sonny’s thoughts were back in Tony Bridgeman’s house. In her mind’s eye she could see herself crouching beneath the window, peering in, unable to come to terms with what she was hearing.

Martha watched, and wondered. She suspected Sonny was pregnant, but sensed there was more to her unease than that. There was something more disturbing here than having a child out of wedlock – though that was trouble enough.

Martha looked at her niece straight in the eye. ‘You seem worried, my dear. It’s nothing to do with John Chapman, is it?’

Visibly shaken, Sonny reminded her, ‘That was a long time ago. John Chapman is a happily married man now, with two young babies.’ She laughed scornfully. ‘I was never very good at choosing the right men.’

Martha wasn’t being cruel. She was gently reminding Sonny how easily relationships could go wrong. John Chapman had hurt her, yes. But that was water under the bridge – a girlish fling that was never meant to be serious. This was serious. She and Tony. Sonny tried to shut out reality. ‘I see John in the street quite often,’ she informed Martha. ‘We pass the time of day. There’s nothing there. There never really was.’

‘And now?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean . . . is there a boyfriend?’ She didn’t really need to ask. She had seen Sonny blossom over the past year. Lately she had heard her being sick in the mornings. And now she saw the little tell-tale signs in those pretty green eyes. Something bad had happened. Something worse than before.

Blushing to the roots of her hair, Sonny avoided the question. ‘I’ll be twenty-five soon . . . a bit too old to have a boyfriend.’ Many times she’d wanted to tell Martha about him, but he wouldn’t let her.

Martha was not so easily distracted. ‘You would tell me if there was anything worrying you?’ she asked anxiously.

‘I always have.’ At. least that was the truth. Until now.

Sensing that she had pressed far enough, Martha collected her crossword book from the drawer. Returning to her chair, she perched her spectacles on the end of her nose and pretended to concentrate on the clues.

Pouring them each another cup of tea, Sonny switched on the radio. Maybe he had been arrested. Maybe they had found him out and he was locked away. Don’t be stupid! she told herself How could anyone else know? The realisation rose like a black cloud inside her.

There was no help coming.

The Nine o’clock News began with protests by the USSR about US aircraft overflying their territory.

‘When will they learn to trust each other?’ Sonny muttered, switching the radio off.

‘When will we all learn to trust each other?’ Martha asked without looking up.

Sonny knew what she was getting at and felt ashamed. ‘I think I’ll go up to bed soon,’ she said, clearing away the empty teacups. ‘I’ve a feeling tomorrow will be a heavy day.’ She still didn’t know what to do. She certainly couldn’t go into work, and she couldn’t stay here. Like it or not, she had to consider Martha in all of this. She had to make plans. And quickly.

For a while each woman was lost in her own thoughts. Ten minutes passed. Twenty.

Sonny washed the teacups and kissed her aunt goodnight. ‘Are you sure you don’t want anything before I go?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Martha answered. Catching hold of Sonny’s hand as she walked away, she said softly, ‘I’m here if you want me. You know that, don’t you?’

Sonny lovingly squeezed her hand. ‘I know,’ she answered affectionately. ‘But you mustn’t worry. I’m fine. Really’

Martha nodded, but made no reply. She was not convinced.

‘I’ll lock up, then I’ll be off.’

Martha was astonished. ‘You don’t have to do that.’ Locking up was her job. ‘I can do that when I’ve finished my crossword. Good heavens! I’ve locked up this house every night for the past forty years.’

‘Then it’s time you had a night off.’ Sonny’s remark was casual, but her intent was deadly serious.

She had to secure the house against intruders.

It was hot and humid. The sheets clung to her skin and made her itch. She couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t even think straight any more.

The reverberating sound of the grandfather clock invaded her room, its deep musical tones striking the hours . . . one . . . two . . . three. There was a time when the pleasant sounds were merely part of the house’s heartbeat – a background noise, comforting, never intrusive. Now, though, for the first time, they echoed inside her head, lingering long after the chimes had died in the air.

For what seemed an age Sonny tried to sleep, but her mind was too active, the same awful dread too alive inside her. Was Tony thinking of her? she wondered. Was his heart so black there had never been a moment when he truly loved her? Did his wife go along with him out of loyalty, or love . . . or was it a strange kind of revenge? She recalled that last glimpse of her face. Celia Bridgeman had a hauntingly beautiful face, a face both intelligent and cunning. And evil. Both of them were evil!

Raising herself up on one elbow, Sonny stretched out her arm and switched on the bedside lamp. Peering at the small porcelain clock she gave the merest whisper of a smile – the pretty timepiece was a Christmas present from her friend Patricia Burton. ‘Half-past three,’ she groaned, sinking back into the pillows. She had been awake for hours. It seemed like a lifetime.

Getting out of bed, she put on her high-wedge slippers and dressing gown. Leisurely fastening the belt, she went to the window and looked out The sky was a strange mixture of light and dark, with the merest hint of dawn. Everywhere was quiet. She opened the window and breathed deeply. Resting on her hands, she leaned forward, observant green eyes searching the lane. Below her a rat scuttled across the lawn; farther away in the valley an owl hooted. ‘Everything looks normal,’ she breathed. ‘Have I imagined it?’ But no, she had not.

Leaving the window open she went downstairs, tiptoeing past Martha’s room so as not to wake her. She wondered what it would be like leaving Martha behind. Moreover, what would it be like, leaving here and starting a new life? The prospect of going away was daunting. The prospect of staying even more so.

In the sitting room she went straight to the mantelpiece, where she took down the cigarettes and matches. ‘Must give up this filthy habit,’ she muttered as she blew the smoke from her nostrils. ‘Especially now, with the baby and all.’

She was still pacing the floor when Martha came down. For a few moments the little woman stayed in the doorway unobserved, watching and worrying. After a while she gave a little tap on the door. ‘All right if I come in?’ she asked, entering anyway.

Sonny swung round, momentarily startled. ‘It’s your home,’ she answered, resenting the intrusion, resenting herself for making such an unfeeling remark.

‘Your home too, I hope?’ Martha retorted.

‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.’

Martha seated herself in the big old armchair by the empty firegrate. When the chair had been handed down from her grandmother it was past its best. Restored now, and bedecked in new floral-patterned covers made by Martha herself, it was a lovely thing. With short chubby legs, arms sturdy enough to hold a cup and plate, and offering much comfort, it resembled Martha in many ways She had lovingly sited the chair in her favourite place. Set at an angle between the fireplace and the comer wall, it was positioned so she could see through the french doors to the pretty garden. She spent many a pleasant hour resting in the old chair, watching Nature weave its magic spell outside.

Now she made herself comfortable, intending to get to the root of her niece’s problem, because she was certain it must be bad. At the same time she didn’t want to be too pressing, preferring Sonny to confide in her without persuasion. So she merely observed, ‘You still haven’t managed to give up the cigarettes then?’

‘I’ve only ever smoked twenty a day and I’ve managed to cut back to ten. That’s a start.’ Impatiently Sonny stubbed her cigarette out in the grate. ‘I used to enjoy a cigarette, but I know I’ll have to pack it in.’

‘Why?’ But Martha already knew the reason.

The abruptness of her aunt’s question threw Sonny for a moment. ‘No real reason,’ she answered, fobbing her off.

Martha smiled knowingly. ‘Not because you’re pregnant then?’

Sonny stared at her. Then, as though a great weight had dropped from her shoulders, she almost fell into the chair opposite Martha’s. A sense of relief washed over her. The truth was out. She didn’t have to deceive Martha any longer. With the relief came a pressing sense of weariness. It wasn’t just the pregnancy, though that was bad enough. There were things more terrible. Dare she confide? Dare she draw Martha into such a thing?

Resting her elbows on her knees, she dropped her face into the palms of her hands, her voice emerging muffled as she asked, ‘How did you know?’

Martha shook her head and smiled. ‘I don’t know from personal experience, more’s the pity,’ she sighed. ‘I may be a spinster and old in the tooth, but I do know when a woman’s pregnant . . . the blossoming . . . the morning sickness. I’ve watched you these past weeks, and now I’m sure.’ She reached out and took hold of Sonny’s hand. ‘I’ve always found that when you’re troubled it helps to talk about it.’

Sonny looked up. ‘I should have told you,’ she admitted. ‘It’s just that—’ She hesitated. ‘He asked me not to.’

Martha had already guessed. ‘He being your boss, Mr Tony Bridgeman?’

Even in her dilemma Sonny couldn’t help but laugh. ‘I never could keep anything from you!’

‘That’s because I’m an old witch,’ Martha teased. Quite suddenly her tone changed to one of disapproval. ‘He’s married, isn’t he?’

‘Yes.’ There was no point in lying.

‘Does he intend to get a divorce?’

Sonny had to smile at that. ‘I don’t think so.’

Martha nodded her head. ‘I seel’ Anger flashed in her bright blue eyes. ‘Now the bugger’s got you pregnant, he wants nothing to do with you, is that it?’

It was on the tip of her tongue to spill out the truth. Instead Sonny answered quietly, ‘Something like that.’

Martha detected her reluctance to confide more. She also detected something else. Fear! Just then, when Sonny glanced at her, she thought she had seen a flicker of horror in her eyes. ‘Tell me, sweetheart,’ she urged, moving to the edge of her seat. ‘Tell me everything.’

Uncomfortable beneath Martha’s curious gaze, Sonny got up and went to the fireplace, where she stretched out her arms and leaned against the mantelpiece, her every instinct telling her it would be all right to tell. Martha would understand. She would know how to deal with it. But how to start? That was the difficult bit. At the beginning, she decided firmly. That was best.

And so she began. ‘Tony and I have been seeing each other for over a year.’ Her smile was bitter-sweet. ‘I loved him so much.’ All that was over now, she told herself. It was no good letting regrets flood in. ‘He told me it had been over with his wife for a very long time . . . “She leads her life and I lead mine,” he said.’

Martha did understand. ‘All lies, was it?’

Sonny turned to face her. She was eager now, anxious to confess what was troubling her. ‘Like a stupid idiot, I believed everything he told me!’ she said scornfully. ‘Lately, though, I was beginning to wonder. Little things he did or said played on my mind. Things that told me he wasn’t being altogether truthful.’ She hung her head. ‘Oh, Aunt Martha, how could I have let myself be taken in like that?’

‘We all make mistakes.’ Martha tried hard never to sit in judgement. She didn’t do so now. ‘Go on, dear.’

‘Whenever I had any doubts, he was quick to reassure me. It was over between him and his wife, he said, and they were both wanting a divorce. Because she was a vindictive woman he asked me to keep our affair secret.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I never told anyone.’

Deeply agitated, she plucked the cigarettes and matches from the mantelpiece. She struck a match, blew it out, and replaced both the matchbox and the cigarette packet. ‘I should have told you, though,’ she said forlornly.

‘And I’d have told you to drop him like a hot potato!’ Martha declared.

Sonny wondered if that was the real reason why she had never said anything. ‘All the same, I should have confided in you.’

‘Well, you’re confiding in me now, thank goodness, so go on.’ Martha folded her chubby arms and sat back in the chair. ‘You were saying?’

‘He promised we’d get married as soon as possible.’ Sonny touched her stomach and smiled. ‘We planned to have lots of children. He said part of the reason why he and Celia had grown apart was because she didn’t want children and he did. You know I’ve always wanted a family, so it seemed we were the perfect match,’ she said bitterly.

‘Does he know you’re expecting his child?’

Sonny felt the colour drain from her face. ‘I meant to tell him today,’ she murmured. ‘I didn’t get the chance, thank God.’ Relief rushed through her. The things she had heard . . . Tony and Celia.

‘Something bad happened, didn’t it?’ Martha queried. ‘That’s why you didn’t tell him?’

Sonny smiled at her. ‘You’re so perceptive,’ she said gratefully. ‘The truth is, I’d decided not to involve you, but now I hope you can advise me. You see . . . it isn’t as simple as you might think.’

‘Nothing ever is.’

‘He was out of the office all day today, attending business meetings, that kind of thing. I missed him, like I always do.’ Flushed with guilt, she lowered her gaze. ‘But I kept myself busy enough, what with trade orders and paperwork for the new housing development. Then there’s the purchase of two hundred acres of land he’s in the process of buying, and the ongoing negotiations for the shopping precinct.’ She grimaced. ‘Everything the evil bastard touches turns to gold.’

A hard, disapproving look from Martha was enough to make her feel ten years old again. ‘Sorry, but he is an evil bugger!’ She went on, ‘Because of the extra administration, and a great pile of correspondence that needed getting away, I intended working through until eight. So when he phoned at half-past six he knew I’d still be there. He needed some important documents and wanted me to take them to his house.’

Being old fashioned, Martha didn’t agree with women taking too much responsibility on themselves. ‘What was wrong with Jack Metcalf taking the papers? He’s the officeboy, the one who’s supposed to do the running, isn’t he?’ Naturally curious, she had been kept well informed over the years about life in the office.

‘Tony did ask for Jack, but, like everyone else, he’d been gone some time. I offered to take the papers, and he seemed delighted. We had a short, intimate conversation, and it was arranged that I should drop them off on my way home.’ She took a moment to recall his exact words. ‘I wondered if his wife would be out, and he’d planned it so we could spend some time together.’

Smiling nervously, she swung away and again took down the cigarettes and matches. She lit a cigarette and took a puff. Then almost immediately she angrily stubbed it out. Still plagued with doubts about involving Martha, she suggested, ‘We can talk about it tomorrow if you like?’

‘No time like the present,’ Martha said firmly. And it was obvious she meant to stay put until she’d heard it all.

‘He said he wouldn’t need the documents until seventhirty. But I was so excited at the prospect of seeing him that I got finished early.’ Sonny smiled ruefully. ‘I called in at the surgery this morning to collect my test results. I’m pregnant.’ She grimaced. ‘I can’t really believe it.’ Nothing in the world, not even Tony Bridgeman, could make her regret having this child. ‘I knew he’d be thrilled,’ she said regretfully, ‘and I couldn’t wait to tell him the wonderful news.’ In her mind’s eye she pictured his face and loathed him.

‘I went to the house, just as he’d asked,’ she continued softly. ‘I rang the doorbell a few times but couldn’t seem to make him hear me.’

Overwhelmed, she sat down and took a moment to think. ‘The lights were on,’ she recalled. ‘Music softly playing.’ Her voice shook. ‘I thought he might be in the bathroom, or out the back . . . so I went round the side of the house.’ Tears misted her eyes and she had to look away. ‘The curtains were open in the lounge and the window wide open. You could see right in . . .’

Martha guessed. ‘He was there, wasn’t he? With his wife?’

Sonny nodded, her voice falling to a whisper. ‘They were naked . . . writhing about on the floor.’ She