He continued to butter his toast. Sally was supposed to have been staying over last night. He’d planned a nice relaxing dinner, bought a bottle of good Burgundy. But the duck still sat uncooked in the fridge. And his throbbing head reminded him only too keenly that he’d ended up drinking the contents of the bottle on his own. Sally hadn’t got in until the small hours.

The lack of rest didn’t appear to have improved her mood. And her only reply to his comment was a snort, head down, as she continued to play with the muesli in her bowl.

‘I thought you’d be pleased. Isn’t this what you’ve been after? SIO on a murder inquiry.’

‘No time. No resources. And, most importantly, no bloody suspects.’

‘Isn’t that how murder inquiries usually start?’ David considered chancing a smile, but seeing Sally’s expression thought better of it.

‘Why couldn’t I get a nice straightforward domestic?’

David looked up. ‘I can’t believe you just said that.’

She tossed her spoon into her cereal bowl, causing a splash of milk to slop onto the wooden tabletop. ‘I’m sorry. But you know what I mean. It’s just not how I imagined it.’

He leant across the table, covering her hand with his. ‘I don’t imagine the poor sod who was murdered had this in mind either.’

‘I know.’ Sally looked up at him and smiled. ‘Ignore me. I’m just tired.’

‘Anyway, if this isn’t a run-of-the-mill murder and you manage to solve it, it would be a feather in your cap, wouldn’t it?’

‘Solve it?’

‘Well, that’s what detectives do, isn’t it? Solve crimes.’

‘You always make it sound so Holmes and Watson. Murder inquiries are more about data management than deerstalkers and calling cards.’

David tugged his forelock. ‘I stand corrected. But it wouldn’t hurt your promotion prospects, would it?’

‘I don’t suppose it would. But right now I’ve got more important things to worry about – like how I’m going to find a killer.’

CHAPTER EIGHT

Professor Margaret Bockford cursed under her breath. An unexpected knock on her office door was rarely a welcome occurrence. What in heaven’s name is Emma thinking of? Her assistant was normally far too efficient to allow unexpected intruders to elude her. Once intercepted, if it was a day for receiving visitors, their presence was invariably announced via the telephone. And today, as Margaret had made Emma aware, was most definitely not a day for visitors. She had been grappling with the journal article she was writing for the best part of a month and the deadline for submission was tomorrow. Why on earth had she allowed herself to be badgered into writing the wretched thing in the first place?

She let out a deep sigh and pulled herself upright in her chair. ‘Come!’