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.
She said, "Sergeant? Am I the only - "
"Look. I'm not much of a one for shopping," Havers told her.
"Ah. Then let me give you some pointers," Isabelle said. "First of all, you need a skirt or trousers that fit, are ironed, and have the proper length. Then a jacket that is capable of being buttoned in the front. After that, an unwrinkled blouse, tights, and a pair of pumps, court shoes, or brogues that are polished. This isn't exactly brain surgery, Barbara."
Havers had been gazing at her ankle - hidden though it was by the top of her trainer - but now she looked up at the use of her Christian name. "Where?" she asked.
"Where what?"
"Where 'm I s'posed to do this shopping?" She made the final word sound as if Isabelle had been recommending she lick the pavement.
"Selfridge's," Isabelle said. "Debenham's. And if it's too daunting a prospect to do this alone, take someone with you. Surely you've a friend or two who know how to put together something suitable to wear to work. If no one's available, then browse through a magazine for inspiration. Vogue. Elle."
Havers didn't look pleased, relieved, or anything close to accepting. Instead, she looked miserable. Well, it couldn't be helped, Isabelle thought. The entire conversation could have been construed as sexist, but for heaven's sake, she was trying to help the woman. With that in mind, she decided to go the rest of the way: "And while you're at it, may I suggest you do something about your hair as well?"
Havers bristled but said calmly enough, "Never been able to do much with it."
"Then perhaps someone else can. Do you have a regular hair-dresser, Sergeant?"
Havers put a hand to her chopped-up locks. They were a decent colour. Pine would come closest to describing it, Isabelle decided. But they appeared completely unstyled. Obviously, the sergeant had been cutting her hair herself. God only knew how, although Isabelle reckoned it involved the use of secateurs.
"Well, have you?" Isabelle asked her.
"Not as such," Havers said.
"You need to find one."
Havers moved her fingers in a way that suggested she wanted a smoke, rolling a fantasy fag between them. "When, then?" she asked.
"When then what?"
"When am I s'posed to take all of your ...suggestions to heart?"
"Yesterday. Not to put too fine a point on it."
"Straight away, you mean?"
Isabelle smiled. "I see you're going to be good at reading my every nuance. Now" - and here they were at the real point, the reason that Isabelle had moved them from the desk to the conference table - "tell me. What do you hear from Inspector Lynley?"
"Nothing much." Havers looked and sounded immediately cagey. "Talked to him a couple times is all."
"Where is he?"
"Don't know, do I," Havers told her. "I expect he's still in Cornwall. He was walking the coast last I heard. All of it."
"Quite a hike. How did he seem to you when you spoke to him?"