She looked Gillard in the eye. ‘There were times when I might have killed him if I’d had the chance. It’s not a crime to think about murder, is it?’

‘Thankfully, no. We’d all be guilty from time to time.’

‘I’ll let you in on a secret. When my father died, I asked if I could have some of his ashes. You know how you can have ashes of your loved ones made into jewellery? Well, I got my father made into a clit ring. He had called me a whore. So I wanted him to witness up close and personal all the activity that I chose for myself in that department.’

Gillard had quite an image in his head. ‘You clearly had the last laugh.’

Fresh back from London, Gillard headed straight to the Mount Browne refectory for a quick bite. It was 2.30 p.m. and he was famished. Having made his order, he turned to see the young CSI trainee, Kirsty Mockett, sitting at a table with two fresh-faced male recruits.

‘Hello Kirsty, mind if I join you?’

‘Not at all,’ she said. She made the introductions, and Gillard sat down, with a coffee in hand.

‘Monday is induction training, right?’ he asked.

‘Yes. We’ve got Detective Superintendent Dobbs later this afternoon.’

‘Ah, Radar Dobbs. Well I hope you will try to stay awake. He does know his stuff.’

‘Are you not eating?’ Kirsty asked.

‘Yes, it’s coming. So have you told your colleagues yet about your crash course in crime scene management?’

‘No. It seemed a bit boastful,’ she said, her face colouring slightly.

Her two colleagues looked slightly puzzled, so Gillard said: ‘This young woman did a fantastic job yesterday securing a difficult crime scene, and has given us a real head start in the case.’

At this, Kirsty really flushed and looked down at her plate. The two young men stared at her, and at the detective chief inspector who had just given her such praise.

‘Poached egg on toast for Mr Craig,’ sang a lilting voice. Gillard watched with bemusement as the woman he knew only as Mrs Iris, resident queen of the kitchen, waddled from behind the crowded counter and placed a steaming hot plate in front of him. ‘Dat is only a tiny little morsel, so I gave you a bit o’ bacon.’ She tapped him on the shoulder affectionately.

‘So police corruption extends right through to the kitchen,’ said Ryan, one of the two young men.

‘Favouritism perhaps,’ Gillard replied. ‘She’s quite a character. But there’s not a hint of corruption about her. She just wants to feed everybody up.’

Mrs Iris had been at Mount Browne for as long as anyone could remember, and knew most of the cops by name. She seemed to view the officers as weakling children in need of sustenance, whatever their actual size. Every slice of toast came with a huge gobbet of melted butter, every breakfast sausage ordered came with an extra half link, and her infectious tinkling laugh, punctuated by the percussion of cutlery and the clatter of plates was the soundtrack of the restaurant. For police officers returning from the scene of a crime or some harrowing road accident, the warmth, friendliness and steam of the kitchen gave a hearth-like reassurance.