‘Well … theoretically, I’ve got my best days ahead of me.’

‘Not theoretically. You have, trust me. Just don’t waste them.’ Cora leaned forward, staring at her daughter meaningfully. ‘Promise me that … you won’t waste them.’

In reality this meant: Please get yourself a fella. So Lucy opted to change the subject. ‘How’s the shoulder?’

‘Stiff, but I’ll live.’

The previous year, Cora had accidentally become embroiled in one of Lucy’s more extreme cases and had suffered a pistol shot to the left shoulder. The wound was relatively clean, the bullet passing through, and quick emergency surgery had prevented any life-changing damage, but it had still seen her spend several weeks in hospital, and even now she was on a course of recuperative physiotherapy. It was typical of Cora’s courageous self-confidence, though, that despite the very obvious scar, she was still happy to wear a strappy summer dress, and to look good in it.

‘Get anything nice?’ Lucy asked. ‘Apart from my voucher?’

‘Well … I’ve been meaning to tell you this.’ Suddenly, Cora looked cagey. ‘On the basis that you were bound to find out anyway, you having such a nose for trouble …’

‘Okay … go on.’

Cora sighed. ‘Yesterday morning, a florist’s van turned up at the house. And delivered … well, I don’t know for sure … maybe a couple of thousand pounds’ worth of summer blooms. Living room’s currently like a greenhouse at Kew Gardens.’

‘Two grand’s worth of flowers?’ Lucy said, astonished.

‘At least.’

‘So … what is it, a secret admirer?’

Cora took a sip of prosecco. ‘Hardy secret, Lucy.’

‘Ohhh, you’re not telling me …?’

Their eyes met, and Lucy shook her head with angry bewilderment.

To say that her father, Frank McCracken, was estranged from her would have been the euphemism of all time; in truth, the mere mention of his name put Lucy on edge as almost nothing else could.