Duncan opened the door before she could ring. "What, are you clairvoyant?" she demanded, laughing, as he kissed her cheek.

"Among my many talents." He took her damp jacket and hung it on an iron coat rack in the hall.

"What's this all about? Are we meeting someone here?"

"Not exactly," he answered. His grin made her think of her four-year-old son concealing a surprise. "Let's have a look round, shall we?"

The kitchen lay to the left, a cheerful, yellow room with a scrubbed pine table and a dark blue, oil-fired cooker. Gemma's heart contracted in a spasm of envy. It was perfect, just the sort of kitchen she had always longed for. She gave a lingering look back as Kincaid urged her into the hall.

The dining and sitting rooms had been opened into one long space with deep windows and French doors that Gemma presumed must lead to a garden. The dining furniture had an air of Provençal; in the sitting room, a comfortably worn sofa and two armchairs faced a gas fire, and bookcases climbed to the ceiling. In her imagination, she saw the shelves filled with books, the fire lit.

"Nice, yes?" Kincaid queried.

Gemma glanced up at him, her suspicions growing. "Mmmm."

Undeterred, he continued his tour. "And here, tucked in behind the kitchen, a little loo." When she had dutifully admired the facilities, he took her into the last room on the left, a small study or library. But there were no books on these shelves, just as there had been no dishes in the kitchen, no personal possessions or photographs in the dining and sitting area.

"I'd put the telly here, wouldn't you?" he went on cheerfully. "So as not to spoil the atmosphere of the sitting room."

Gemma turned to face him. " Duncan, are you giving up policing for estate agenting? I'm not going a step further until you tell me what this is all about!"

"First, tell me if you like it, love. Do you think you could live here?"