‘I miss them, but they are still with me in spirit . . . and never more so than when I’m cooking something from my mother’s recipe book.’ He smiled. ‘What about your family?’

‘My parents live in London, and so does my sister.’

‘Is she also in the police?’

Jane laughed. ‘No, she’s a hairdresser. She’s married with two young children.’

‘Does she do your hair?’

‘Yes. I’m due to see her for a trim next week, though it may depend on how this case works out.’

‘She’s obviously very good. I’ll swap her details for the soup recipe.’

Jane laughed. ‘Deal . . . though I better check with her first as she doesn’t usually cut men’s hair – apart from my father’s and her husband’s.’ She opened the recipe book. It hadn’t crossed her mind that all the recipes would be written in Maltese. ‘I think I’ll need you to translate again,’ she said, handing him the book.

Chris read out the ingredients and the method for making the soup and Jane wrote it down in the back of her notebook. He asked if she’d like the recipe for the kwarezimal biscuits as well.

She smiled. ‘I think they may be beyond my cooking abilities.’

Chris closed the recipe book, put the rubber band around it, then gently kissed it and made the sign of the cross.

Jane looked at her watch. ‘I really must be going, or I’ll never get my report done by tomorrow morning. Would you like a hand with the washing up?’

He stood up. ‘No, it’s fine. My housekeeper will do them in the morning. She actually gets annoyed if I do the dishes – or cleaning of any sort.’

Jane laughed. ‘Thanks for a lovely meal.’

‘My pleasure. Thanks for the company.’

‘Hopefully, I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘I hope your meeting goes well. It would be a great shame if someone as determined as you wasn’t allowed to continue the investigation.’

In the hallway, Chris helped Jane on with her coat and opened the front door – then he asked her to hold on for a second and nipped back to the kitchen, returning with the biscuit tin.

‘Please, take these.’

‘Are you sure?’

He nodded. ‘I can easily make some more.’

‘Thank you. Goodnight, Chris.’

‘Goodnight, Jane,’ he replied, closing the door.

Chris went to the living room, turned on the radio and sat in the armchair to listen to the evening news. After a couple of minutes, he got up, turned off the radio, then picked up the phone and dialled a number.

It was quickly answered. ‘Bishop Meade speaking, how can I help you?’

‘Good evening, Bishop. It’s Father Floridia. I’ve just rung to tell you a coffin was uncovered today in the grounds of the old St Mary’s Convent . . .’

CHAPTER EIGHT

Driving home, Jane felt nervous about her conversation with Father Chris. She knew it could land her in trouble, and she only had herself to blame if it did. She hoped he’d meant it when he said ‘trust works both ways’. It was that remark that had persuaded her to confide in him. Her only two previous encounters with a priest were at a friend’s wedding and the funeral of a murder victim she had attended in her official capacity. In both instances the priests had been in their sixties and rather dour. Father Chris seemed proof that not all priests were the same, with his warmth and humour.