As we near the ground, the terrain speeds up, flashing over the occasional villa with a glittering blue pool alternating with agricultural land parched dry in the baking heat. I smooth my comfortable travelling trousers as I ready to leave the plane, usually slick at this small airport, though passport control can have its own ideas.

I’ve landed in so many places that I zone out and take my time as the process of arrival unfolds. Only worry about what you can control has become my mantra over recent years, so I am rarely frustrated or annoyed when there is nothing I can do to change things. I take care that I am seldom in that situation where it really matters.

I think back to why I’m here.

-~-

The rainy-day meeting at the coffee shop on Marylebone Road with Juliet, that’s why. Her outpouring of grief, even eleven months after her David died, made worse by the mess he left her and the boys to deal with.

She gives me details of the man who stole all their money. In telling the story, her eyes sadden at how the opportunity to buy the property abroad went badly wrong.

Afterwards, Juliet could not afford the house in Surrey, and she had moved back to her parents. They then became estranged with the pressures a young family brought home with them, and her father had moved out. So soon finding comfort in someone younger had not been expected, but he had been weakened by all that had happened.

When she’s gone, I fire up my laptop to find out more about the Mr Wentworth who had caused all the problems. The Mr Wentworth who had chosen the wrong target, for serendipity called, and I was brought into the picture to help my oldest school-friend right the wrong.

After all, although Juliet thinks I work in PR, this is my real profession.

-~-

My ID holds up, despite a terse border security guy and I make my way to the car hire desk. My contacts in the area have vetted the best one for me to use. I drive the little Corsa to the anonymous Ibis, a couple of miles from the airport, and I check-in. When I’m not working, I have tastes to match the fees I receive. When I am on a job, I blend in as inconspicuously as I can.

You can be inconspicuous in an Ibis.

-~-

After I complete my initial research, I call the number I know off by heart from the throwaway phone I bought on my way home. Once connected, my PIN directs me to my handler, and I ask him to check on the man who has created this domestic maelstrom for my friend. They will report back in twenty-four hours, and in the meantime, I have other preparations to make.

I check my stocks of the little plastic milk-in-a-sticks that I will be using. I have a new batch of 20 sent to me every month, though I never actually use the milk from them. Using them in date is a little matter of ethics that I prefer to honour.

I select a phial from behind the eggs in the refrigerator and using a syringe, I carefully extract the milk from two of the sticks. I flush them clean with water from the tap. Then I refill the sticks with the colourless and odourless liquid from the phial using another syringe. I reseal the sticks using my iron, a simple technique I developed a while back.

Why make life difficult?

One of the sticks will remain in my purse, and one will go in my hand luggage in the rack above me on the plane. The liquid volume is so small, I know from experience I will not need to have it in the little plastic bag I show at security.

The information I get back from my contact is as complete as I need to move in two days. I book my ticket through a consolidator, using the correct identification details that I will be using.

Good to go.

I book a reservation at The Ivy, something of a minor superstition for me once the details of an assignment come together. Most people don’t get in at short notice, unless they know someone there who can help.

Which I do.

-~-

I rise early the next morning and take the hotel buffet breakfast. The little car zips along for around 25 minutes, and I park in one of the angled spaces on the seafront of the little town.

I wander around like any other tourist; glancing at postcards; touching trinkets and trying those magnets that you can stick on your refrigerator back home, if you wish. I blur into a beachfront café for a restful espresso and take stock for later. Finally, I buy ice cream and wander to where the office is set in a quiet little plaza, sprawled with bougainvillea.

We meet in the office at the agreed time. Despite the air-conditioning unit being switched on high, fully glazed shopfront windows ensure it is baking. There’s a complex bouquet of sweat and cologne as I shake hands with our Mr Wentworth.

“Miss Jackson?”

Once I acknowledge him, he shows me into the back office. He closes the lid on his MacBook and slides it into a drawer in his desk. He is a leery, overweight man with slicked-back hair and sweat marks under his armpits. Nothing is appealing about him at all.

“Can we go see the properties right away?” I ask, desperate to get out of the even more oppressive heat in the tiny room.

“Of course. Of course.” We have a little preamble as he finds what he needs, including a small brown file with my name on it.

He leads the way to a shiny black S-Class parked across the street. I would have preferred to drive my own car, but I am aware that the fewer links I have with him, the better.

We drive up into the hills, during which time he subjects me to the usual flirty patter to be expected from any property salesman sniffing a good commission. But he has an eye on a different prize as well, with a pretty woman by his side.

After twenty or so minutes, we arrive at the gated community, where he has told me there are forty completed and sold properties. We drive through the estate, stop outside one and get out, walking up a path through lush green lawns to a large house with walls either side.

“These first properties are almost completed and are all sold. But they will give you an idea of the quality you can expect.” He continues, “We can then go down to the other side of the bay where I still have a few available off-plan.”

I am taken aback by the sumptuous inside of the property, even before I step out onto a vast patio overlooking an infinity pool and views to the ocean. He reappears behind me with a bottle of champagne, and we sit on loungers.

“What sort of deal can you do for me on a property exactly like this.” We have some polite chat, but I’m only playing along for a purpose.

“I have cash to pay with; no mortgage to find. I can do a deal very quickly if you have something like this available, at the right price.”

He smiles at me. I thought it was about the deal, but I also knew that he was looking for more from me, which was precisely where my plan needed to go.

“I’m sure that we can work something out,” he says, sliding onto my lounger alongside me, “Particularly as we are getting along so well.”

The comment is left there lingering, and after a further look around the property, we get back in his car and move on to a dusty building site, the other side of the headland. There is little to see there except half-finished buildings and excavating machinery.

We meander back to the sticky office as the light is fading. He shows me artists impressions and a site plan for the new properties. I find one I like and after a little haggling, settle on one. I complete a banker’s draft for €25,000 which he places in the drawer with his laptop. He puts the key in his pocket, and I’m about to leave when he makes a further suggestion.

“If you aren’t doing anything tonight?” he enquires, urging me to comply, “Would you care to join me for dinner?”

Would I?

“That would be lovely,” I reply, enthusiastic only for the reason I came here. “But could we eat early, as I missed lunch?”

“Of course. I know a great place that you’ll love.”

We walk through the town to a bar/restaurant on the beach. It’s a classy place, and he is no doubt keen to impress. There is no table ready for us, so we take a drink sitting on high stools at the bar. After the first one, I excuse myself, and in the bathroom, take a milk stick and slip it inside the sleeve of my shirt.

When the waiter asks if we would like a second drink, I suggest a cocktail as a celebration for our agreement, and he agrees.

“Two margaritas.” He smiles. “You’ll love the tequila they serve here.” He leaves for a bathroom visit himself, and as the drink arrives, I top up his glass.

He raises his glass. “To success,” we agree, as he smacks his lips in anticipation. Mr Wentworth loves tequila.

“Lethal. Fucking lethal.”

And he takes a long draw, slurping a little in his greediness.

As the evening wears on, the alcohol, the food and the initial effects of the toxin make him dozy enough for me to retrieve the keys to his office—and the desk. Although he had high hopes for the evening, he gives way, and we agree to meet the next day to complete the initial phases of the transaction.

I open the office and seek out the drawer where he left his laptop and the banker’s draft. I tuck them into my purse and via a tortuous route make my way back to the car and onwards to the hotel.

I have an IT expert I’ve used from time to time, and he will work on the laptop to make sure that Juliet’s family are financially secure. After all, some of the proceeds from Mr Wentworth’s bank account were theirs anyway.

A few extra Euros—or dollars; or pounds—will go no way to compensate for their loss, but will, at least, make looking after her family much more comfortable.