In appearance alone, Lucy was very different to her mother, five-foot-eight tall and, thanks to years of sporting activity, possessed of a trim, athletic build. She was naturally tanned and had glossy, crow-black hair, which these days, as a plain-clothes officer, she wore well past her shoulders. Her green eyes and sharp features had a feline aspect, which men seemed to find both attractive and intimidating. In contrast, Cora was more of an English rose: she only stood five-foot-six, was more buxom than her daughter, and had silver/blonde hair currently styled in a short bob, blue eyes, pink lips and a soft, pale complexion. Age had caught up with her a little. She was ‘no longer wrinkle-free’, as she would frustratedly say while standing in front of the bathroom mirror, but, thanks to her exercise regime, plus the fact that she ate like a bird, she was still in terrific shape.

She also knew how to dress.

When they met at The Brasserie that evening, while Lucy was in kitten heels and jeans, with a stonewashed denim jacket over her black sleeveless vest, her mother wore stiletto heels and a flowery, figure-hugging dress which instantly took ten years off her. The Brasserie was a small place just off the town centre. It had once been a stable block or saddlery, and it attempted even now to retain that aura, with intricately paved floors, period timber beams, and walls adorned with framed, sepia-toned photographs depicting the Bridgewater Canal during the horse-drawn era. But it provided good service and very good food, and was perfect for a quiet midweek celebration. Lucy and Cora were allocated a table alongside the huge stone fireplace, but it was a mild September so far, and though the hearth was stacked with logs and kindling, no flames had been lit.

‘Late night?’ Cora asked, after they’d ordered a couple of drinks.

Lucy flipped through the menu, only vaguely aware that she’d just stifled a yawn.

‘Sort of.’ In fact, she’d only hit the sack after ten that morning, and even then had only managed to grab a couple of hours in an armchair in the rec room at Robber’s Row, as she’d needed to get back on duty in order to bottom the paperwork.

‘You couldn’t take today off?’

‘Would’ve been nice, but no. Finishing off a big job.’

‘Well … you still found time to send me a very thoughtful present. Thank you very much.’

‘It was only a voucher,’ Lucy said.

‘A voucher is good. No point taking a wild guess, is there? And no point giving me money, either. Where’s that going to go, if not on bills?’

Lucy picked up her glass of prosecco. ‘Happy fifty-fifth.’

They clinked glasses, even if Cora pulled a face. ‘Don’t say that, please …’

‘Hey, I’m no spring chicken,’ Lucy replied.

‘You’re thirty-two. I wish I was.’