I am not expecting to have the sequel to Transgression ready for publication before the summer of 2016. Those who have read Transgression will, I am sure, be pleased to know that a sequel is underway. Here is a preview of the first page. If you’ve not read Transgression yet, then maybe this will arouse your curiosity. The narrator is the wife of Douglas, the Member of the British Parliament whose transgressions are the subject of the first book.

I’d just poured myself a glass of my favourite red when my phone whistled, signalling the arrival of a text. I thought it might be Jac. My daughter and I had been stock-taking in our antique shop and it was late. I had dropped her off at her home ten minutes before. I wondered if she had remembered something that would explain a discrepancy we had both been scratching our heads over. When I retrieved the phone from my bag I was surprised to see it was from Douglas. He sometimes used to ring after a late session in the House, but it was a long time since we had indulged in a cosy late night chat. The message was cryptic, three words I shall never forget: Check yr e-mail. Just like that, ‘your’ abbreviated to ‘yr’ which was something he never did, he hated the contractions young people use when texting.

It was as well that I’d brought my lap top home with me. I’d been on the verge of leaving it at the shop but picked it up thinking I might Skype Harry. My son was away on one of his European recruitment missions, seeking agricultural workers. It was unusual at that time of year, demand for casual farm labour falls off once the main harvest is over. Of course, as soon as I read Douglas’s e-mail I understood.

As I read, a numbing sensation spread from my chest up to my face and downwards to my legs. It was fortunate that I was sitting down, having placed the lap top on the kitchen island and sat before it on one of the high stools. Had I been standing I am certain my legs would have given way. A buzzing sounded in my ears and I thought I was about to faint. I grasped the edge of the worktop with both hands, closed my eyes and shook my head. The buzzing stopped and I slid from the stool, steadying myself with one hand against the wall. I had not bothered to draw the blinds or curtains when I came in, not expecting to spend more than a few moments in the kitchen, just retrieving a bottle and glass before retreating to the TV room to catch Newsnight. Now, the thought of someone, anyone, outside being able to see in, horrified me and I crossed to the window, stumbling once on the way, and tugged at the curtain, shutting out the dark night that was about to engulf me.