I pound at the front door, and someone tall, thin, and very much not Rebecca opens it. I really don’t have time for this. “I’m looking for Griff,” I say without preamble, “or someone who knows where Griff is.” The man gives me a slow, sceptical look up and down. “Quickly,” I snap. The fine lines on his forehead become deep furrows. “So,” he says. “You’re the bloke, are you?” I sigh. Then I shout at the top of my lungs, “Rebecca!” It does the trick.
