She crossed a leg over her knee, showing-God help us, Isabelle thought-a red high-top trainer and an inch of purple sock. Despite the hideous heat of summer, she’d combined this fashionable use of colour with olive corduroy trousers and a brown pullover. This last was decorated with specks of lint. She looked like someone involved in an undercover investigation into the horrors of life as a refugee. “Due respect, guv,” Havers said although her tone suggested there was something of grievance attached to her words, “’sides the fact that regulations don’t allow you to give me aggro about the clothes, I don’t think my appearance has much to do with how I-”

“Agreed. But your appearance has to do with your looking professional,” Isabelle cut in, “which you don’t at the moment. Let me be frank, regulations or not, professional is how I expect my team to look. I advise you to have your teeth fixed.”

“What, today?” Havers asked.

Did she sound borderline insolent? Isabelle narrowed her eyes. She responded with, “Please don’t make light of this, Sergeant. I also recommend you alter your manner of dress to something more appropriate.”

“Respect again, but you can’t ask me-”

“True enough. Very true. But I’m not asking, am I. I’m advising. I’m suggesting. I’m instructing. All of which, I expect, you’ve heard before.”

“Not in so many words.”

“No? Well, you’re hearing them now. And can you honestly tell me that DI Lynley never took note of your overall appearance?”

Havers was silent. Isabelle could tell that the mention of Lynley had struck home. She wondered idly if Havers had been-or was-in love with the man. It seemed wildly improbable, ludicrous actually. On the other hand, if opposites did indeed attract, there could not have been two people more dissimilar than Barbara Havers and Thomas Lynley, whom Isabelle remembered as gracious, educated, plummy voiced, and exceedingly well dressed.