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routes.’
    Tom was pleased to see that the fashion for Scandinavian detectives seemed to have waned in favour of the more exotic.
    â€˜This one’s a Tuareg.’ The Dean pointed at an unfamiliar name. ‘Knows a lot about camels and the desert and so forth. According to his CV he can track week-old footprints across dry sand, but he doesn’t talk much. Worried sand will get in his mouth, I suppose. And with that headgear on, you can’t see much of his face. Not a pull for the film rights, is it? Still, he is supposed to be very loyal and he might make a decent sidekick in something light. I won’t say you haven’t got your work cut out there, though.’
    The Dean glanced at his watch.
    â€˜Now I hope you don’t mind, Tom, but I’ve asked some of the members of staff to join us for tea. Your first chance to meet them, although no doubt you’ll know some of them by their work. And you ought to meet Claire.’
    â€˜Claire?’
    â€˜Claire Morgan. Your head of department.’
    The Dean took on a slightly uncomfortable look as he said her name. Distant alarm bells began ringing in Tom’s mind again. Why had a vacancy come up mid-year? What
had
happened to his predecessor? Why had he not met his head of department before he was given the post? Something was wrong, but what?
    He was about to ask when the Dean continued.
    â€˜I ought to warn you, though, that Claire can be rather—’ he paused, searching for the right word. He found it: ‘Abrupt. Particularly if she has had a drop to—’
    There was a heavy knock at the door and it opened before the Dean had time to say anything else. It was a heavy-set, formidable-looking woman in her middle age, wearing a teal-blue three-piece tweed trouser suit and a gold-rimmed monocle. Her greying hair was drawn back, but wildly, and her craggy face was ruddy. As the door opened Tom saw she was consulting a large, handsome half-hunter watch, which, once she had announced the time – four o’clock exactly – in a contralto voice, she pocketed in her waistcoat, leaving a heavy chain stretching across her substantial girth.
    â€˜DEAN!’ she boomed, making the Dean flinch.
    â€˜Hello, Claire, I am glad you’re here first—’
    â€˜Always punctual, Dean. You said four o’clock. It is four o’clock and so HERE I AM!’
    â€˜Yes,’ mumbled the Dean. ‘Good stuff. Now, Claire, this is Tom Hurst, your new Junior Lecturer.’
    Claire turned to squint at Tom through her monocle. He felt as if he were something on a plate that the Dean was offering in the same manner as a waiter trying a new dish on a tricky but important diner. He knew he might be sent back at any moment.
    â€˜So this is HE!’ she bellowed, loud enough to make the ice in the Dean’s whisky shift. ‘The Dean has TOLD me about you.’
    Flecks of sputum flew from a mouth in which her teeth were square and yellow, like those Spanish snacks the name of which Tom could not instantly recall. Anyone could have smelled the drink on her from a hundred paces. Tom forced a smile and proffered his hand. She recoiled.
    â€˜NEVER shake hands! Can’t bear to TOUCH people! Hate to think where that hand’s BEEN, you see! KNOW too much about ’em, I do!’
    Tom shrugged as if he sympathised, but then could suddenly think of nothing to do with his hands. He clasped them with a slight clap.
    â€˜Stand still, will you!’ she snapped. ‘Let me have a look at you! Hmmm. Good seat. Like your father’s and I dare say you father’s father before him. Runs in the family, you know, Dean, FROM THE PATERNAL SIDE.’
    The Dean raised his eyebrows.
    â€˜Really?’
    â€˜You DON’T believe me.’
    She said this as if she were somehow disappointed, as if the Dean had just let her down, but before she could take it any further there was a sharp rap on the