She was very aware of how attractive he was, and felt more uncomfortable still. She wondered why he didn’t like her, though she knew that she was taking it too personally. Which was silly. Once he went back to wherever he lived, she’d never see him again.

‘Hello, Trudy, come on through, I’m in the kitchen,’ she heard Clement call, and with a smile of relief at the sound of her mentor’s voice, hurried out of the hallway.

Vincent noted her pleased reaction, and his lips tightened. He followed close on her heels as she walked into the room.

‘I didn’t know if you’d be free today,’ Trudy said amiably, slinging her satchel and the accoutrements it contained onto the seat of a drawn-out table chair, and taking off her police officer’s cap.

Vincent’s eyes widened at the mass of glossy, sable curls that had been hidden underneath, and couldn’t help but wonder what they would look like, tumbling down around her face and shoulders. He turned abruptly to the kettle and switched it on. ‘Another cup of tea, Dad?’ he asked flatly.

‘Please. And one for Trudy – she probably needs defrosting!’ Clement grinned. He was sitting at the table, a plate of breadcrumbs in front of him, smeared with a tell-tale orange trail of marmalade. ‘You walked from the station?’ He looked up at her.

Vincent, watching the exchange, was relieved to note that his father seemed friendly, but not effusive. He was showing no obvious signs of being over-pleased to see her, and neither did he follow the girl with his eyes as she set about shrugging off her coat and sitting down. Rather, he folded up the newspaper he’d been reading, and pushed aside his plate, looking totally relaxed.

He was, in fact, showing none of the tell-tale signs of an infatuated older male in the presence of a pretty younger woman, and Vincent told himself to relax. He’d been letting his imagination get the better of him, which was not like him.

‘So what’s on the agenda for today?’ Clement asked.

‘I thought we’d tackle Geoffrey Thorpe again,’ Trudy said. ‘See what he’s got to say for himself?’

‘Hmmm.’ Clement nodded. ‘I agree. It’s tricky though, isn’t it? Not being sure what we’re dealing with exactly? Until we get cause of death, we’re groping about in the dark – and maybe for no good reason.’

‘What’s this?’ Vincent asked, intrigued, pulling out a chair and sitting at the table. ‘It all sounds rather convoluted.’

Clement cast an amused smile at his son. ‘I thought you weren’t interested in my work?’ he accused amiably.

‘I’m not.’ Vincent smiled back. ‘But this sounds interesting. Why is “it” tricky? And what is “it” anyway?’