Diane Joplin knew straight away that her father’s death was no accident. She was sure it had something to do with the sleek black console that she now had in her silver carry-on Samsonite. Just the previous morning, before he had left the house for the airport and his flight to New York, he had come to her room and woken her up. Sleepy-eyed she had studied him from behind an unruly fringe of brown hair, taking in the old-fashioned detail of his English gentleman’s tweed jacket with the leather-padded elbows. He had looked every inch the professor that he was.

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