Hepton stared down at her legs, supple, slim legs wrapped in thin black stockings. She wore a blue pinstripe skirt to just below the knee. It was half of a suit, the jacket of which he now saw was hanging over one of the chairs beneath the freshly wiped foldaway table.

‘There’s today’s milk in your fridge,’ she was saying, ‘and some Assam tea in the cupboard. The place was quite barren. I hope you don’t mind. I went to that little shop on the corner.’ She turned to smile at him, and despite himself, he smiled back.

‘I think you should know—’ he started.

‘Oh,’ she interrupted, sniffing the interior of the teapot speculatively, ‘but there’s very little I don’t know, Martin. Very little indeed. That’s why I’ve been sent along here. Do you take milk?’

‘Who sent you here?’

She smiled again, with her unblemished English rose of a face, then waved an expansive arm around the kitchen.

‘All neat and tidy,’ she said. ‘That’s how I like things. I can’t remember, did you say you took milk?’

‘Yes,’ he said, beginning to feel distinctly uneasy. It was difficult to find an order for all the questions welling up within him. ‘How did you get in?’

‘Didn’t I say?’ She began pouring water from the kettle into the teapot. ‘Your door was open.’

‘Open?’

‘Wide open. No breaking and entering necessary. Well, no breaking at any rate. So I suppose the worst I can be accused of is cleaning with intent.’ She had placed everything on a tray, which she now double-checked. Satisfied, she lifted it. ‘Shall we go through to the living room?’

There was little Hepton could do but follow her, knowing that he needed answers but knowing also that she seemed determined to give them in her own way and in her own time. Well, he had lots of time, didn’t he? He was on holiday. All he needed was patience.

They sat down and she poured, handing him a cup.

God, he hadn’t used this tea set in living memory, preferring a chipped red mug. It had come with the flat, the tea set. But then so had the mug.

‘I thought it was odd,’ Harry continued, ‘your door being open like that, so I called in to report it. I’ll pay for the call, of course.’

‘Called in to whom?’

‘To my employers,’ she said, ‘who are, ultimately, your employers. It’ll be useful to keep that in mind.’

‘Why?’

She chose to ignore this, lowering her fine eyelashes as she sipped from her cup. Hepton drank too, playing her at her own game. The tea was strong and aromatic. Harry put down her cup and crossed her legs.

‘You saw your friend this morning. Paul Vincent. And now your little holiday begins.’

‘That’s right.’ Then it hit him. ‘And you,’ he said, ‘drive a black Ford Sierra.’