“Right.”

She nodded to the mobile, which I’d retrieved from the Mini’s bonnet and still held in my hand. “If you’re looking for a signal there isn’t one, I’m afraid. It’s the same in my house. I can get one in the attic but that’s about it. We’re too low down the valley.” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder. “The landline works if that’s any help. I’ve checked it. There’s a cordless phone beside the fridge.”

“Right.”

My one-word answers seemed to disconcert her and she stared at the floor. Not knowing her, I assumed she expected gratitude for her intervention, and it was only later that I discovered how much she relied on other people to make conversation. Peter blamed her introverted nature, but I always felt there was a level of arrogance in it as well. She was above the common courtesy of small talk, and it was left to others to struggle with her silences.

We were rescued by Peter, who appeared out of the corridor behind her and advanced on me with a smile on his face. “Hi, there,” he said, reaching for my hand. “I’m Peter Coleman. Welcome to Winterbourne Barton. I gather Jess’s dogs gave you a bit of a fright.”

I tried to step back but his fingers had already swallowed mine. “Marianne Curran,” I said, eyes widening as my skin crawled under his.

He released me immediately and stood aside to gesture me towards the corridor. “I can’t get it into Jess’s head that the average person doesn’t appreciate being slobbered over by those ugly great brutes. Their bark’s a lot worse than their bite, of course-rather like their mistress.” His eyes lit with ironic humour as he ignored Jess’s glare and shepherded me towards the kitchen. “How far have you driven? If you’ve come from London, you must be exhausted…”

He sat me at the table and kept up an innocuous monologue until I relaxed enough to answer, although I was guarded in what I said, giving half truths rather than outright lies. I told him I’d been born and brought up on a farm in Zimbabwe, that I’d fled with my parents to London when our neighbour was murdered in a racist attack and that I’d rented Barton House for six months to write a book. I expected to be quizzed on details but Peter appeared entirely indifferent to what type of book I was planning or whether I’d written one before. Nor did he visit the reasons for my panic attack.

Jess took no part in the conversation but stood by the door to the scullery, chewing at her bottom lip. She wouldn’t look at either of us and I did wonder if she had a soft spot for Peter and was angry that he was giving his attention to me. It made for an uncomfortable atmosphere and I wished the pair of them would go. I’d like to have told Jess she had nothing to worry about-a tactile doctor with perceptive eyes was of no interest to me at all-but I didn’t, of course.

Instead, I searched for a form of dismissal that wouldn’t sound too rude when Peter said in a warning tone: “Don’t even think about leaving, Jess. You’re the only person here who knows how to light the Aga.”

Her hand was on the doorknob. “I thought it’d be better if I came back later.”

He was watching me as he spoke. “I’m the one who has to go,” he said, rising to his feet. “I have a surgery at four-thirty and I haven’t had anything to eat yet.” He took out his wallet and removed a card. “I’m part of a rural practice that covers a wide area,” he told me, placing the card on the table. “There are three practitioners and our main clinic’s about eight miles away. Jess can give you directions. But you’ll have to take out a temporary registration to use it”-he held my gaze for a moment-“and that means you’ll need an NHS number or some proof of identity.”

I ran my tongue nervously across my lips.

“The alternative is to call me on my private line”-he tapped the card-“this one. I live five minutes away at the western end of the village. If I’m at home, I’ll come out…if not the call will be diverted to the clinic. Just give your name and ask for me personally, and the receptionist will put you straight through.”

Why was he making up excuses to go? It was only twenty minutes since he’d talked about playing golf. What had he guessed about me? What was he planning to do?

He knew I wasn’t Marianne Curran, I thought, but did he know I was Connie Burns? My bureau chief, Dan Fry, had told me he’d released a photograph to the international press, but he’d promised it was an old one, taken when I first joined Reuters. Shorter hair, rounder face, and ten years younger. I folded the card into my palm. “Thank you.”

Peter nodded. “I’m leaving you in good hands. Jess’s only weakness is that she assumes everyone is as capable as she is.” He turned towards her so that I couldn’t see his expression or his hands, and I wondered what he was signalling. “Take it gently, eh? You know where to find me if you need me.”

I LEARNT LATER that it was my mention of Zimbabwe that had jogged Peter’s memory. The Times had run a piece the day after my abduction which gave details of my childhood in Africa and my parents’ enforced decision to quit the farm. He felt it was too much of a coincidence that an author with the same background, and roughly corresponding to Connie Burns’s description, should turn up in Winterbourne Barton showing signs of acute anxiety. He confirmed it by searching archive coverage on the Internet when he got home, where he learnt that my mother’s name was Marianne.

Jess had no such recognition. All she could see was a similarity in looks between me and Madeleine. Tall, blue-eyed, blonde and pushing forty. Even my name-Marianne-was similar. When she felt more comfortable with me, she said my only saving grace was that I didn’t appear to have Madeleine’s vanity about my appearance. Even in extremis, Madeleine would have been at the face powder long before she reached the boiled lobster stage. She would certainly never have allowed Peter to see her looking less than perfect.

“She was all over him like a rash when he first came to Winterbourne Barton. My mother said it was embarrassing. Madeleine was twenty-five and desperate to get married, and she wouldn’t leave Peter alone.”

“How old was he?”

“Twenty-eight. It was fifteen years ago.”

“What happened?”

“He conjured a fiancée out of a hat.” She smiled slightly. “Madeleine threw a few tantrums, but it was Lily who was the most upset. She adored Peter, said he reminded her of the family doctor when she was a child.”

“In what way?”

“Breeding. She said doctors were a better class in those days. I told her it was a pretty stupid criterion-all I’m interested in is whether Peter knows what he’s doing-but Lily trusted him because he’s a ‘gent.’ ”

It was part of Peter’s charm, I thought, secretly sympathizing with Lily. “He gives a good impression of knowing what he’s doing,” I said cautiously, waiting to have my head bitten off. Jess’s ambivalence about Peter meant I had no idea what she really thought of him. Any more than I knew what he thought of her. She’d hinted several times that she didn’t trust him over Lily’s Alzheimer’s, suspecting Madeleine’s hand behind his willingness to leave Lily to cope alone.

“He bloody well ought to know what he’s doing,” she said sarcastically. “He’s a qualified doctor.”

“Why are you so hard on him?”

She shrugged.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Nothing…apart from fancying himself something chronic.”

I smiled. “He is quite attractive, Jess.”

“If you say so.”

“Don’t you like him?”

“Sometimes,” she admitted, “but Winterbourne Barton’s stuffed with women who find him irresistible. They’re all in their seventies and their favourite pastime is massaging his ego. You’ll be at the back of a very long queue if you want to join in.”

“Is he married?”

“Was.”

“Kids?”

“Two…a boy and girl…they live with their mother in Dorchester.”