Christmas on the Little Cornish Isles: The Driftwood Inn. Phillipa Ashley

be black coffee or hot chocolate,’ he said, holding up a jar of Nescafé and a tub of Cadbury’s Highlights. ‘I’ve inspected the contents for weevils and they look OK, even if the previous occupant was a Neanderthal.’

      Maisie laughed. What harm could it do to have a drink with him? And she was really, very relieved that he’d cleaned the place up himself. One less job on her list.

      ‘I’ll risk the hot choc, please.’

      ‘Wise choice.’ He filled the white plastic kettle and switched it on. Maisie sat down on a rattan chair in front of the single bed. The place had been dusted and had had the Henry Hoover round it, by the looks of the tracks on the carpet. It was very basic, but at least it was clean. The cost of getting new furniture – new anything – out to the island meant that things couldn’t be thrown away unless absolutely necessary.

      As the kettle boiled, Maisie tried to compose herself and let her heightened feelings calm down. Patrick opened the kitchen window and the top light in the bedsitting area to let some fresh air in. He’d also left the door open a crack so there was a route for escape if necessary. If she wanted it.

      Patrick handed her a mug of hot chocolate and lifted his own, chipped mug from the rattan table next to her.

      ‘Cheers,’ he said, clinking her mug with his. ‘Here’s to our working relationship.’

      Maisie smiled. ‘Back at you, and here’s to you doing as you’re told from now on.’

      ‘Good luck with that.’

      His eyes gleamed with mischief. Maisie caught the open door through the corner of her eye. Anything could happen: whether she wanted it to or not. She’d brought this stranger into her family’s home and she knew almost nothing of him. Apart from, that is, the word of a woman who was eleven thousand miles away. Except … Judy Warner had seemed genuine. She was obviously a blunt, kind woman who thought the world of Patrick McKinnon and spoke of him like he was her own son.

      ‘I spoke to a friend of yours while you were playing Mrs Mopp,’ she said.

      Patrick’s cup stopped half to his lips. ‘Who might that be?’

      ‘Judy at the Fingle.’

      ‘You spoke to Judy while I was in here? It’s the early hours in Melbourne.’

      ‘She was just closing up after a late shift when the email came through so she called me.’