Tiger shook his head, then turned to take the brush from Isobel. ‘Probably just some kids who’d had too much to drink. That’s all-day opening for you. You go and have a coffee with Erica, I’ll finish clearing this up and then we’d better see about getting your window replaced.’

‘But it’s curved glass, dear. Special. I don’t know if they’ll be able to do it.’

‘Well, I’ll give the glaziers a call and find out.’

‘Thank you, Tiger. Thank you so much.’ Then she burst into tears.

‘Come on,’ said Erica gently. ‘Come and sit down. We’ll help you sort it out.’

The distraught Isobel was taken into the kitchen of Erica’s shop while Tiger assessed the damage. It was not too bad. The glass was gone, and the window dressing destroyed, but the carved wooden uprights were intact and there was no sign of disturbance further back in the shop. Poor Isobel. Why did they always have to do it to the nicest people? People whose lives would be turned upside down by one mindless act.

Because it was such a pleasant day, and because he had the day off, Christopher Devon put on old clothes, wolfed down a bowl of porridge and went out into the garden. He would work out there for as long as he could. Until it got dark. Put aside his worries and fill his mind with different problems–rose pruning and snowdrop dividing, revitalizing borders and tidying up flower beds.

He was bent double between ‘Madame Pierre Oger’ and ‘Madame Alfred Carrière’ when he heard the voice calling him.

‘Dr Devon. Excuse me! Dr Devon!’

He stood up, snagged his arm on a particularly ferocious thorn and said, ‘Shit!’ Then, recovering himself, ‘I’m sorry. I’m off duty today. You’ll have to go to the surgery…’

The woman laughed.

Christopher unhooked the sleeve of his sweater, picked his way out of the border and walked across the lawn to where she stood.

She was a small, good-looking woman in her forties with short, dark hair. She wore fitted jeans and a baggy sweater; her features were delicate and expressive. She didn’t seem to have the manner of most people who came to the door–patients worried about their health, or ladies conducting market research.

‘I’m afraid I don’t do surveys or anything like that,’ said Christopher.

A look of amusement crossed her face. ‘I’m glad to hear it. Neither do I.’

She spoke perfect English, but something about her helped him make the connection. ‘Oh, goodness! Are you Maria?’

‘Yes. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I’ve come to sort you out.’ The words were innocently prophetic.

‘No. That’s all right. Only you don’t…I mean…’

‘I don’t look like my mother? No!’