After what felt like ten minutes but was probably only ten seconds, Sullivan appeared at the door. He certainly looked sick - he was in old pyjamas with a red jumper pulled over them; one that emphasised the grim, yellowy-grey colour of his face, with deep bags under his eyes, and stubble.

Stubble was not something Bunty had ever seen on Inspector Sullivan. It was a rare and somewhat curious sight. If he were not swaying about and looking like he was about to vomit all over her, she'd have found it rather attractive.

Sullivan stared at her, mouth an unreadable thin line. Bunty quickly started into an explanation.

"I'm really sorry, if I'd have known it would offend you so much, I never would have done it." She quickly fought off the urge to giggle as she remembered his face as he shook the book in her face, like a husband shaking an adulterous pair of underpants in the face of the unrepentant wife.

Sullivan was looking at her rather crossly.

"Is your idea of a funny joke ruining a man's reputation?" He asked.

Bunty sniggered. "I don't think that many people saw you with it."

Sullivan went to shut the door. Bunty quickly tried to shove her shoe into the gap but he was stronger than he looked and slammed it closed. The rain was getting heavier now, and the overhang of the roof only sheltered half of her. She huddled against the door and shouted through it.

"Look, I'm actually very sorry." She repeated. "When we heard -"

"We?" Asked the man now hiding behind the door.

"Me and Ms Haxelby."

"Oh." His voice seemed to soften a little at the mention of the librarian.

"We really missed you at the library, and when we heard you were stuck at home, ill and all alone, without any new books, we thought we'd bundle up a peace offering for you!" She yelled. "So will you please stop being an arrogant prick and let me in, these books are really sodding heavy!"

The door opened. Sullivan stood to the side, face resigned, and Bunty scuttled past him before he had a chance to change his mind.

Her first impression of Sullivan's cottage was one of utter horror. The room itself was cold, smelled rather musty and forgotten, and was cramped with a low ceiling that made the room feel squat and short.

The decor was incredibly dated, the carpet ghastly, the sofa a hideous beige ensemble that looked like an overgrown leather marshmallow.

Never had a room been more clearly designed by one of the spinsters of the Parish Council, and Sullivan obviously hadn't bothered to change it. Bunty was worried for his sanity.

The only traces that the neat, pristine Inspector might actually inhabit this grotesque Bed and Breakfast inspired space was a clock on the mantlepiece (with a huge mirror above it, in which Bunty could see her own face staring pensievely back at her), a faded blue armchair and a heaving, creaking bookcase. There were more books stacked harphazedly behind the net curtains on the window sill, beside the radio.

"Do you want to sit down?"

In her survey of the horrible room, Bunty had forgotten the man she had actually came to see, and the voice speaking to her from beside the (empty) coatstand made her jump.

"Yes," She breathed cheerily, doing her best to shed her coat, which was sticking to her like a second skin. "Then I can show you the books I've brought. We weren't sure which ones you'd like, so we..." She gestured to the huge bundle that she'd had to set down.

"You didn't have that problem last time." He muttered, heading towards the kitchen. She could see it was the kitchen because of a hatch someone had left in the wall. God knows why. "Cup of tea?" He asked casually.

"Oh, I'd hate to put you out, if you're unwell-"

"I was making one anyway."

"Oh." Said Bunty, sinking slowly onto the edge of the blue armchair. "Thank you, then."

She watched him fill the kettle with water through the square, glass-free window and gather the tea bags and two cups, before pulling out a crumpled paper bag from the back of the cupboard and frowning into it.

"Do you take sugar?" He asked worriedly.

"No, just black for me."

Sullivan immediately dropped the bag into the bin. The kettle whistled and he made his way back into Bunty. He paused for a moment, looking a little surprised, before handing her a cup which she quietly thanked him for, before perching awkwardly on the sofa with his.

I'm in his chair, Bunty thought.

"I don't usually take sugar, so I'm glad you don't either." Sullivan had made a pathetic stab at conversation. "I had some in the cupboard but I think it's gone off, or something."

He stared into the depths of his mug. The room buzzed with stillness. Bunty shifted awkwardly and her toe hit the book bundle.

"Oh!" She pushed it across to Sullivan. "Here's the books - sift through them, and I can bring back any you don't like."

Sullivan eyed the conglomerate of books, wrapped in the old anorak, as though a snake might rear up out of it and bite his arm off.

"Ms Haxelby chose them." She reassured.

Sullivan breathed a sigh of relief. He unwrapped the parcel hesitantly, but as soon as he plucked out the first book, his face broke into a broad smile.

"Haven't read that one in years." He smiled, leafing quickly through Robinson Crusoe before setting it aside. "I preferred Moll Flanders and Colonel Jack."

He delved through the pile like a well behaved child at Christmas, piling the books onto the sofa beside him.

Only one book sat in the pile to be returned to the library - Anna Karenina.

"Yes," Mused Bunty, "Maybe you've had enough of that sort of thing - scandalous affairs and the like."

"Actually, I've my own copy upstairs." Sullivan failing to hide his grin. "It's illustrated and everything."

Bunty laughed. "You do have quite a few books here." She remarked, leaning around and looking back at the bookcase. "It's a wonder that you need the library at all."

"Actually those books are mostly for work." Sullivan explained. "Forensic theories and true cases. The really good ones are upstairs."

"And does Agatha Christie count as work?" Bunty asked. "And Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?"

"Obviously." Sullivan agreed.

As Bunty looked closer at the stacked shelves, she realised that most of the books were detective stories. The top shelf was forensic theories, but the rest seemed to be all thrillers. Arranged meticulously, of course.

"Which do you prefer?" She asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Sir Arthur Conan Doyle or Agatha Christie. Which is your favourite writer?"

"Oh, Agatha Christie, of course." Sullivan said it as if no answer could be clearer. "Her mysteries are much more intricate and exciting and the books are far easier to read. She actually wants you to solve the mystery instead of just listening to her talk about it."

Bunty nodded. "I'll keep that in mind."

She looked at the shelf again. "You say you've even more books upstairs?"

"Yes."

"Why do you bother going to the library? There's enough here to keep me going for years."

"Maybe I just read faster than you." Sullivan quipped.

There was an awkward pause.

"Sorry, that was a bit cruel, I didn't mean-"

"Oh no," Bunty waved away his apologies, "It's fine. Ms Haxelby says you're one of the best readers in Kembleford."

"Seriously?" Sullivan asked.

Bunty nodded, while sipping her tea.

Sullivan bit his lip, smiling. He was blushing.

They chatted amicably, if a bit awkwardly, for another five minutes or so, until Bunty made some other offhand comment about how many books were in the house.

"Come on upstairs and see the rest." Sullivan said, as casually as could be. He stepped up off the sofa, stretching like a cat. In his old clothes and bare feet, he looked shockingly human.

Bunty paused. Curiousity was compelling her. But something about going upstairs with Sullivan - it sounded wrong. Even if it is to see a book collection.

Sullivan was looking at her in mild confusion.

"Do you want to see them?" He asked. He obviously didn't realise the connotations Bunty was being plagued with.

"I don't know what you think of me, Inspector." Said Bunty, "But I am not in the habit of visiting bachelors with the express intention of ending up in their bedrooms."

Sullivan's jaw dropped. His eyes boggled. He started to move his hands about without seeming to realise it.

"Why would - what -" He spluttered, gesticulating madly, "We're just friends! Why would you - besides, I thought you -"

He froze. He recovered himself.

"I can assure you, on everything I hold scared, that I have the none of those intentions whatsoever." He announced, looking rather haughty. "And also I hope you know that you have a one track mind."

He strode off to the staircase, affronted. Bunty burst out laughing.

"You're rude! You're shockingly rude!" She laughed. Sullivan was totally unaware of her reputation it seemed.

She hopped out of the chair and bounded up the stairs after him, attempting to overtake him as he continued to shake his head in disbelief.

He opened the door at the top of the stairs and Bunty followed him in, feeling pretty certain that she may well be this room's first ever visitor.

The bedroom was also ugly. The green carpet was a hideous pattern and looked like the sea on a bad day, the kind where the wind blows wet sand into your face and a howling seagull swoops down and steals your ice cream, which was sticking to your hair anyway.

The curtains were the same strange colour, but of a flimsy, cheap fabric that didn't keep out much sunlight.

There was an iron bed in the middle of the room. The bedclothes were a grey and blue design, a design that definitely didn't match the room but matched the occupant. The bed was unmade - the duvet twisted and contorted and had obviously been thrown off in a hurry, probably went Bunty arrived. There was a basin (obviously a sick basin like her nannies used to use) beside the bed, but it was empty. Thank god.

She turned around and gasped. There was one big bookcase by the door, and a smaller one beside it, seeming to wobble under the weight of the huge selection of books it held. All around were books - books stacked in teetering towers, books spilling out of an old pirate style sea chest. One of the drawers in the huge clothes chest was lying open, with books peeping out from it, over spilling like the scarves bleeding out of Bunty's drawers at home.

The walls weren't as bare up here. On one there were dozens of pages of messy inky scrawl, obviously passages and quotes that Sullivan had transcribed and achingly tacked over the washed out green walls. Strings connected several pages, like the evidence board in the police station.

Bunty gasped.

She'd never seen a bedroom like it. Granted, it wouldn't be her cup of tea, but it was utterly stunning nonetheless.