Death in Paradise (BBC One) has become the comfy jumper of British television. It is familiar, warm and dependable, and it continues to make a programme that revolves around murder seem cosy and comforting. As the 10th series arrives, there have been some personnel changes – Ardal O’Hanlon has gone, having been replaced by Ralf Little’s nervy, allergic DI Neville Packer halfway through season nine, and DS Florence Cassell is back after a series-long hiatus. But otherwise, even if Danny John-Jules’s Officer Dwayne Meyers is no longer on the force, it is as regular as waves lapping on the shore. Someone is killed, the mystery is unravelled, there is a satisfactory ending – and plenty of bad jokes. No wonder it is still one of the most popular shows on TV. For all of the clever-clever, concept-driven, budget-busting mega-dramas – most of which rake in half the viewers that this does – sometimes, a detective show should be as undemanding to watch as its central conundrum is tricky to solve. On the island of Saint Marie, a popular morning TV host finds himself under suspicion when the channel’s newsreader/investigative reporter/Nancy Drew figure Melanie is found dead in her pool. She was on to something big, she had just told her mother in an excited phone call, and the story would blow the island wide open. So, what was the story and who would want her dead? Enter DI Packer. Little’s Packer is a wheezy, fumbling, heat-stricken mess who claims to be have sick building syndrome, which means he cannot go to work at the police station, but must instead languish in his shack, wet towel on his forehead, complaining about a rash. He eats the same meal every night and asks the chef to go light on the seasoning. “You’re never tempted to try something new?” Cassell asks him. “Why take the risk?” he replies, steadily, before accidentally burning down his shack, thanks to an unfortunate incident with a citronella candle and a mosquito net. This forces him to get to know the newly returned Cassell a little more, as nobody else will let him crash on their couch. If it is the start of a romantic storyline, then it is not necessarily convincing, yet. Packer is a bumbling Mr Bean figure who happens to have good instincts – most of which he attributes to his Thermos flask, oddly – while Cassell is cool and still grief-stricken after the death of her fiance. But they make a decent double act. The murder does somewhat press the issue of Packer’s return to the station, whether he is allergic to the building or not, and Packer and Cassell set about finding out how exactly Melanie went from a brief morning jog to becoming a floating corpse, seemingly in a matter of seconds. They must piece together the clues, including an errant shirt button, strange scents that are easily detectable by Packer’s overly sensitive nose, and a spectacularly to-the-point password to an encrypted USB stick. The fact that it all takes place in such a beautiful setting is borderline cruelty for those who haven’t dared to think about a holiday since the pandemic began. The prospect of looking out at the sea, kissed by the sun, sipping a cocktail, is almost too much to bear. Perhaps another way to view it is as some much-needed visual escapism during this frosty, largely housebound month. You have to love Death in Paradise for having so many murders to solve in such a small place – its crime rate must be staggering – yet simultaneously acting as a convincing advert for the return of tourism, whenever that may be. As for the sad demise of Melanie, well, solving the crime is an unhurried affair. There is a hint of the newcomer making a number of enemies, although, truthfully, it is a done deal from the start. When Packer observes the body in the pool, he notes that it is likely she was strangled, what with the visible fingerprints around her neck. “And that grouting wants looking at, too,” he adds, in one of the many groan-inducing gags that let you know this is definitively not dark TV, no matter how many terrible crimes take place. From political corruption to sexual harassment, this opening episode packs it all in, then throws in a missing cat storyline and treats it with equal gravity, just because it can. Luther this ain’t. I am not sure which callous scheduler used to put Luther on at the start of January, though, because right now, considering everything, Death in Paradise is just about the level of thriller I can handle. It is a steady hand, sometimes silly, vaguely taxing and utterly dependable. In the nicest possible way, the cast is irrelevant: you get the sense that it would thrive, no matter which familiar TV face was at the front of it. It is a crime show wrapped up in a dad joke, with lovely scenery, and it offers up all the satisfaction of finishing a crossword. Maybe it is not the cryptic, but who doesn’t love the quick?