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It’s going to rain.’
    ‘It’s only drizzling.’ The heavens opened, and rain thundered onto the windscreen. I bit my lip in frustration. This was a serious downpour.
    Annabel reached over and gave my knee a condescending pat. ‘I’ll take you to the church, you silly thing.’
    I was livid. Pete should be taking
me
to the interview. Funerals were my speciality.
I
went to the church;
I
took the names at the door and waited for the service to end; and
I
trooped back to the house for tea and fruitcake, mingled with the mourners, and got the obituary interview. Funerals were
my
kingdom.
    It just wasn’t fair. Suddenly I hated Gipping. I hated the dreariness of country life. I felt trapped and depressed.
    ‘Come on, don’t sulk,’ Annabel said. ‘Which church is it?’
    ‘St Peter’s the
Martyr
,’ I said, easily identifying with said saint’s character trait. ‘Turn left here.’
    Annabel swung the BMW down a narrow lane flanked by towering yew hedgerows that marked the church boundary. We pulled into an empty gravel car park in front of a twelfth-century, grey stone, Norman church.
    St Peter’s the Martyr was in Upper Gipping. It boasted the largest cemetery in South East Devon and was jammed with medieval memorials, lichen-covered headstones dating from the seventeenth century, and marble family crypts. Quite simply, it was
the
place to be buried.
    The rain ceased as quickly as it had begun. Annabel stopped in front of the wooden lych-gate. ‘There, you see – plenty of time. All that worrying for nothing,’ she said. ‘Are you sure it’s the right place? There’s no one here.’
    ‘
Yet
,’ I snapped. ‘No one here,
yet
. It’s important to be early.’
    ‘Oh God, look!’ Annabel’s mouth dropped open in awe. ‘Over there!’
    A sleek black Porsche was parked farther up the lane in the shadow of the hedge.
    ‘Exactly my point,’ I said. ‘That car could belong to a mourner.’
    ‘I would do anything for a ride in a car like that,’ gushed Annabel. ‘Be an angel and make sure you find out whose it is.’
    ‘Don’t get too excited,’ I said, opening the door. ‘They won’t be from round here.’
    ‘Vicky, wait.’ Annabel grabbed my arm, digging her scarlet painted nails into my safari jacket. ‘Look, I know you started at the
Gazette
ages before me—’
    ‘Three months, actually—’
    ‘Oh! Is it really as long as that?’ Annabel’s look of surprise did not fool me for a minute. ‘What I am trying to say is that journalism is a tough world. Tough, tough,
tough
! We have to look out for number one, but we can still be friends. Hmmm?’
    ‘Absolutely.’ I gave her a brittle, totally insincere smile and shook her hand off my arm. ‘Thanks for the lift.’
    ‘And don’t forget about the driver of that Porsche.’ Annabel gave a seductive wriggle. ‘I can’t
resist
a man who drives a sports car.’
    ‘Must go now. Hope the diarrhoea clears up.’ I slammed the door hard, pushed open the gate, and stormed up the brick herringbone pathway towards the church vestibule. I was sick of hearing about Annabel’s obsession with sports cars – or rather, their drivers.
    I, too, was curious about who owned the Porsche. Gipping rarely attracted flashy visitors. The town had its fair share of tourists, but most came from the East End of London or from the industrial cities of the north. I wondered what had brought the driver to such a remote corner of rural England out of season. Perhaps he was a long-lost relative of Sir Hugh’s, come to claim his inheritance?
    I cast around for a glimpse of the mysterious driver. Perhaps he was already in the church, praying to the Lord Our Saviour? I peeped inside, inhaling the comforting smell of musty prayer books and brass cleaner, but, apart from the floral tributes that lined the aisle from font to pulpit, the place was empty.
    Outside, I scanned the churchyard. Funerals could be harrowing at the best of times. Perhaps he had sneaked off for