That earned her another snort-muffled this time-from Xandra, who got a look to singe her ears from her father before he turned back to her and, ignoring her attempt at levity, asked, ‘Have you spoken to your insurance company?’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘Because you’ve had an accident?’

‘Oh. Yes.’ The prospect of contacting her insurance company and what that would mean took all the fun out of winding up George Saxon. ‘I suppose I have. It never occurred to me…’

‘No?’ He gave her another of those thoughtful looks. ‘Maybe you should do it now although, bearing in mind the age of the car and the likely cost of repairs, their loss adjuster will probably decide to simply write it off.’

‘What? They can’t do that!’

‘I think you’ll find they can.’

‘Only if I make a claim.’

He didn’t answer. And this time Xandra didn’t leap in to defend her.

‘I am insured,’ she said hurriedly, before George asked the question that was clearly foremost in his mind.

She didn’t blame him. First she wasn’t able to produce her licence and now she didn’t want her insurance company involved. Anyone with two brain cells to rub together would believe she had something to hide.

Obviously not whatever scenario was going through his mind right now, but something. And they’d be right to be suspicious.

But she was insured.

She’d checked that Lydia’s car was covered by her own insurance policy but now, faced with the reality of accidental damage, she realised that it wasn’t that simple. If, on the day she made a claim for an accident in Maybridge, the entire world knew she was flying to Bab el Sama-and they would, because she’d made absolutely sure that the press knew where she was going; she wanted them there, establishing her alibi by snatching shots of ‘her’ walking on the beach-well, that really would put the cat among the pigeons.