‘Oops.’ She gave me a conciliatory pat on the arm.

‘Ah, but you’re probably right,’ I said, this time without the whine. Maggie had far too level a head on her sometimes. If I’d been inclined to believe in reincarnation, she would have been one of those wise old women in another life – the ones with flowing robes, manes of black hair streaked with white and deeply lined faces oozing serenity. Maggs was the modern version; she had the serenity vibe, but was a stylish young thing who could throw the most unlikely garments together and look effortlessly cool. She was also the only person I’d ever met who could make a brown and yellow zip-front tracksuit top look good. Cow. My style, if you could call it that, was more frenetic conservative.

‘You know I can’t help but think I get lumbered with the crud because DI Johns has got his little grudge. Sometimes I wonder if I’d have been better off sticking with being constable of a shithole little town, oops, sorry about the language.’ I looked up at Aunty Jude. ‘At least in Mataura I made a difference rather than getting delusions of grandeur in the city. Here I feel like, well, anonymous.’

Maggie laughed. The sound echoed from two other locations in the room. ‘For a start, you’re anything but anonymous, and secondly, I believe you did rather insult the man, so he’s perfectly entitled to hold a grudge. And, most importantly, I seem to recall some of the locals in that, quote, “shithole little town” you’re so fondly reminiscing about blew up your house and tried to have you killed – and me, for that matter. Got the scars to prove it. In fact, you should come with a public health warning.’

‘Surely you’re not having doubts about your career, Sam?’ Uncle Phil said, as he poured a very welcome drop into the wine glass in front of me. With his foppish hairstyle, almost boyish good looks, high-necked jumper and moleskin trousers, he was the epitome of British country living meets delusional colonial. Despite the airs, like the rest of us, his family were Kiwis from way, way back.

‘No.’ Maggie raised her now-filled glass in a toast. ‘Sam is having trouble adjusting to the fact she’s no longer the centre of attention.’

‘Oh, that’s sad. Haven’t they promoted you to commander yet?’ Phil asked. Finely honed sarcasm ran in the family.

‘Thanks, thanks for that. Just gang up on the guest, see if I care. Whatever happened to pandering to my needs, massaging my ego?’

‘Sorry, Sam,’ Aunty Jude chipped in. ‘You’re not a guest, you’re family now. Abuse comes with the territory; that and chores. You’re on dishes duty, by the way.’

‘I thought you’d be on my side. What is this? Pick-on-Sam Day?’

‘That’s what it said in my diary, what about yours, Unc?’ Maggie asked.