Still, she forced herself out of the car and set off across the flags towards the barn. Security lights flooded the area, making her blink against her blindness. The stillness of the night was split open by a volley of barking that was barely diminished by the thick stone walls of the barn. A dog? Carol Jordan, the ultimate cat woman, had a dog? Had Franklin told her the truth? For a moment, Paula considered turning tail. But she’d come all this way. She might as well knock on the door.

As she raised her hand to the black iron knocker, the door opened far enough to reveal a familiar face. Carol Jordan did not look pleased to see her, and the dog whose muzzle was pushing against her knee didn’t seem any more welcoming. A low grumble in the back of its throat would keep most sensible people at bay.

Paula tried a smile. ‘Any chance of a cup of coffee? There isn’t a Costa for miles.’

‘Is that your best door-opener? Don’t, for Christ’s sake, abandon the job for a career in sales.’ The door didn’t budge. ‘Give me one good reason why I should open the door?’

Paula reminded herself that Carol wasn’t her boss any more. ‘Because it’s a bloody long drive and it’s bloody cold out here. That’s the smart-arsed answer. If you want the sincere one – you should open the bloody door out of friendship.’

Carol’s eyebrows rose. ‘You think we’re friends?’

‘You think we’re not? We had each other’s backs for years. I always thought we liked each other. Respected each other. I never even considered a future you weren’t part of.’ Paula flushed, wondering whether she’d gone too far. Carol’s reserve in personal matters was as much part of her as her devotion to taking criminals off the streets.

Carol lowered her eyes. ‘I’m not sure friendship is one of my strengths.’

‘You’ll never find out if you carry on running away from everybody who cares about you. Now, are you going to let me in before I freeze my tits off?’

Almost a smile. Carol opened the door and stepped back. She clicked her fingers and the dog lay down at her feet. ‘Come in.’

The space Paula entered was a building site, a work in progress. A couple of industrial lamps in their metal cages lay on the floor, casting light and shadow in a complicated chiaroscuro, making it difficult to get a clear picture of what was going on. She clocked the sawhorses, a workbench, bare stonework and bundles of cable and wire sticking out at odd angles. ‘Funny,’ she said. ‘I never had you down as a DIY queen. Or are you just getting in touch with your inner butch?’

‘It’s therapeutic. I’m undoing the past and making a future.’