‘Have a look. The names of the men she’s been talking to on the internet. Dates and times on which she accessed the dating site and transcripts of her conversations with men. One or two in particular.’

Norma looked over her shoulder and turned her wheelchair round. ‘I took her to this window. Follow me, DCI Clay.’

Clay stepped beside Norma Maguire and looked out at the junction of Allerton Road and Penny Lane.

‘I tried to show her how men she may meet online weren’t like men she could meet face to face. I used the example of the street outside. I tried to tell her that she couldn’t possibly read the important signs of first impression in cyberspace, and how much information was lost from real-life encounters. I warned her, there were so many predators out there and that internet dating just wasn’t a safe game.’

Clay weighed it all up and said, ‘Norma, I understand that you caught her using your equipment to visit internet dating sites. But can you see how that conversation might have been viewed by some as a little inappropriate, with you being her employer and Francesca being your employee?’

Without hesitation, she shook her head.

‘I thought of her as a surrogate daughter, that’s how I perceived our relationship. There’s no fool like an old fool as the saying goes.’

Clay observed Norma as she looked out of the window, her eyes becoming moist and her shoulders sagging. ‘Silly, silly girl. The whole thing makes me feel embarrassed. But that’s not the main issue now. There might be something in the file on my desk that will help you find Francesca. I don’t know the details of what’s in there. I just took the technician’s word for it and skimmed the information.’

Clay looked across Norma Maguire’s desk and stifled herself from showing any sign of surprise when she saw the picture in the frame that faced the estate agent all day long.

‘She’s incredibly beautiful,’ said Clay.

‘Francesca Christie?’

Norma turned around from the window and Clay stayed right where she was, looking at the framed picture on the desk.

‘No,’ said Clay. She pointed at the picture. ‘Who is she?’

‘She’s my mother.’ Norma picked up the framed black and white photograph.

‘She’s dressed differently,’ said Clay, observing the white pleated gown that exposed her elegant shoulders, visible because her hair was tied up in intricate curls.

‘She was an actress. This one was taken when she was playing Jocasta in Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex at the Everyman Theatre in the late 1960s. It was a publicity photo. She didn’t go out in the street dressed like that, for heaven’s sake. No, she was a smart, fashion-conscious woman, a woman of her times.’

‘What was her name, Norma?’ Clay smiled. ‘I kind of recognise her.’