My mother apologized and ushered me through the door, taking my jacket and hanging it up in the cloakroom. She looked awkwardly at the automatic in my shoulder holster so I stuffed it in my case. The house, I soon noticed, was exactly the same: the same mess, the same furniture, the same smell. I paused to look around, to take it all in and bathe in the security of fond memories. The last time I had been truly happy was in Swindon, and this house had been the hub of my life for twenty years. A creeping doubt entered my mind about the wisdom of leaving the town in the first place.

We walked through to the lounge, still poorly decorated in browns and greens and looking like a museum of velour. The photo of my passing-out parade at the police training college was on the mantelpiece, along with another of Anton and myself in military fatigues smiling under the harsh sun of the Crimean summer. Sitting on the sofa were an aged couple who were busy watching TV.

“Polly!—Mycroft!—Look who it is!”

My aunt reacted favorably by rising to meet me, but Mycroft was more interested in watching Name That Fruit! on the television. He laughed a silly snorting laugh at a poor joke and waved a greeting in my direction without looking up.

“Hello, Thursday, darling,” said my aunt. “Careful, I’m all made up.”

We pointed cheeks at each other and made mmuuah noises. My aunt smelled strongly of lavender and had so much makeup on that even good Queen Bess would have been shocked.

“You well, Aunty?”

“Couldn’t be better.” She kicked her husband painfully on the ankle. “Mycroft, it’s your niece.”

“Hello, pet,” he said without looking up, rubbing his foot. Polly lowered her voice.

“It’s such a worry. All he does is watch TV and tinker in his workshop. Sometimes I think there’s no one at home at all.”

She glared hard at the back of his head before returning her attention to me.

“Staying for long?”

“She’s been posted here,” put in my mother.

“Have you lost weight?”

“I work out.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“No,” I replied. They would ask me about Landen next.

“Have you called Landen?”

“No, I haven’t. And I don’t want you to either.”

“Such a nice lad. The Toad did a fantastic review of his last book: Once Were Scoundrels. Have you read it?”

I ignored her.

“Any news from Father?—” I asked.

“He didn’t like the mauve paint in the bedroom,” said my mother. “I can’t think why you suggested it!”

Aunt Polly beckoned me closer and hissed unsubtly and very loudly in my ear:

“You’ll have to excuse your mother; she thinks your dad is mixed up with another woman!”

Mother excused herself on a lame pretext and hurriedly left the room.

I frowned.

“What kind of woman?”