An elderly man signed them in and from there they made their way through the vestibule into the Great Hall. Jane stopped dead. It was all so very different to the Time Police. She could smell old building smells – dust, damp stone, mushrooms – all overlaid by the smell of toast, socks, sulphur and cabbage. The Hall was stuffed full of precarious-looking trestle tables, all sagging under the weight of files, scratchpads and screens. Scribbled whiteboards stood around or leaned against the walls. Post-it notes and scruffy pieces of paper were plastered randomly over every surface. A group of people clad in blue jumpsuits were bending over a data stack. One of them looked up, ghostly words and figures illuminating her face.

‘Hey, Matthew. Your mum’s not here. Do you want the Chief?’

He nodded. She spoke into her com and a few minutes later a silver-haired man to whom Matthew bore a passing resemblance appeared in the Hall.

They seemed quietly pleased to see each other.

‘Hey, Matthew. Nice surprise.’

‘Dad.’

‘Back for the weekend?’

‘No – just this afternoon. For a haircut.’

‘Well, that’s a relief. You look like Markham with mange.’ He turned to Jane. ‘Hello. Welcome.’

‘Dad, this is my stylist, Jane Lockland. Jane, this is my dad, Leon Farrell.’

‘Ah.’ He regarded Matthew’s hair again and grinned at Jane. ‘Well, I’m sure it’s very fashionable. Somewhere.’

‘Mum’s not here?’

‘Your mother’s in 9th-century Iceland. She’s gone to check out Ingólfr Arnarson and his high-seat pillars. She’ll be sorry to have missed you.’

‘If you say so, Dad, but I don’t think I can compete with actual Vikings.’

‘I don’t think either of us can. And volcanoes, glaciers, geysers, lava flows, whales and the Northern Lights, of course.’

Matthew grinned. ‘How ever will she manage to pass the time?’

‘Mikey’s not here, either.’ He looked suddenly vague. ‘She, Adrian and Dieter are out somewhere . . . field-testing a pod.’

Matthew nodded. ‘Understood. Going to see Auntie Lingoss.’

‘She’s up in R&D as usual. Do you have time for a coffee before your much-needed haircut?’

They made their way into a large dining room with gracious proportions, floor-to-ceiling windows, ornate but battered plasterwork, and the air of a heavily used room drawing breath before the next onslaught. Matthew went off to get the coffee and Jane and Matthew’s dad seated themselves at a quiet table by the window.

He smiled at her, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. She felt the usual blush begin.

‘I’m pleased to see he’s making friends. It’s not always easy for him.’

A memory of the scene with the fire extinguisher flashed through her mind. Something warned her to say nothing. That Matthew wouldn’t like it.

‘He’s a very private person,’ she said.

‘So . . . the hair?’