‘Well, don’t you normally make stuff up when there’s no real news?’ she taunted him. ‘Go find a half-frozen cat up a tree and call out the fire brigade or some …’ This time, when the door opened, she saw that it was actually Vincent. So much for her hope that he’d be delayed.

He drew off his knitted hat as he stepped inside, and the interior café lights shone on his head, bringing out the fairer highlights in his hair. He looked around, spotted her, then glanced, puzzled, at her companion.

Realising he’d lost Trudy’s focus, Duncan turned sharply in his chair, following her line of vision. He didn’t look at all pleased to see a good-looking, well set-up chap making his way towards them.

‘Vincent, this is Duncan Gillingham, a reporter for the Oxford Tribune,’ Trudy said at once, before either man could speak. ‘He was just importuning me, as always, for a story,’ she added, although she could see, with relief, that he needed no second warning.

Vincent gave a barely perceptible nod of understanding, and then smiled at Duncan. ‘Hello.’

Duncan, for his part, lounged more firmly in his chair and made no attempt to tuck his seat further under the table, giving the newcomer a bit more room to squeeze between their table and the empty neighbouring one.

‘It’s good to get out of this perishing cold,’ Vincent said amiably, shrugging off his heavy overcoat and hanging it on the back of a chair, revealing his brown corduroy trousers and cable-stitched sweater in dark cream. It set off his good looks too well for Duncan’s liking, and he shot a quick, suspicious glance at Trudy.

‘OK who’s this? A witness? A perpetrator? A narc?’ he drawled provocatively, and not surprisingly, Vincent’s hackles begin to rise.

‘Nothing so interesting, I’m afraid,’ he said, forcing himself to sound wryly amused. ‘Just a friend,’ he added mildly, and smiled across at Trudy. ‘I’m not late, am I?’

‘No,’ Trudy said, and shot a significant – and speaking – glance at Duncan. Unluckily, at that point the waitress arrived with his lunch, and Trudy became resigned to the inevitable.

‘Shall we order?’ she said to Vincent with a weary sigh.

She opted for the tomato soup, with Vincent going with scrambled egg on toast. Duncan, damn him, kept up an amusing line of patter all through lunch, ranging from some of his more outlandish newspaper articles, to scurrilous gossip about the current mayor, and the names of likely horses for when the racecourses were finally open that Vincent pretended to make a note of.