‘What were you planning for the rest of the morning?’ You’re not getting rid of me that easily.

‘I thought I’d strip the beds in the big dormitory where the policemen from Inverness have been staying. Apparently they’re leaving today and it’ll be one less thing for Maurice to think of.’

‘Sounds like unskilled work,’ Fran said. ‘Just my bag.’

The big dormitory held six beds in two rows of three. With the high ceiling, Fran thought it looked like an old-fashioned hospital ward. The search team had already packed and their bags were stacked close to the door. The room was on a corner and there were two long windows. Outside, the sky was grey. Fran thought winter had come early this year.

There were two pillows on each of the beds, so it seemed unlikely that the killer had stolen one from here, but as Fran stripped off the cases she felt the sharp shafts of the small feathers inside. One just like this, she thought. It was taken from the centre. Then: But how would anyone carry a pillow to the Pund without being noticed? In the rhythm of folding blankets, of pulling fitted undersheets from the mattresses, it was the practical that occupied her mind. Does that mean the murderer drove there? Of course not. All the birdwatchers carry small rucksacks. It would be quite easy to squeeze one of these thin, rather mean pillows inside. And that’s where the knife was too, of course. Once Jane had been stabbed, the pillowcase would be removed and the same knife used to slash the lining. Then the feathers could be scattered over the corpse. But why? Why go to all that trouble?

Now all the beds were stripped and the sheets were piled in a heap in the middle of the floor.

‘What now?’

‘There’s a laundry next to the kitchen,’ Sarah said. ‘We could make a start on the washing if you really want to stay.’ She made the sheets into two bundles and the women carried them down the stairs.

The room was small and hot. There were two big industrial washing machines and a tumble dryer, a sink under the window, a press iron and a domestic iron and ironing board. Along one wall there were rows of wide shelves with sheets and towels. And spare pillows.

‘Are the guests allowed in here?’ Fran asked.

‘I don’t know. I’ve never used it, but the whole place is pretty relaxed.’ Sarah started to load the first machine.

Looking around the room, beautifully organized, sweet-smelling, with its neatly folded linen, Fran thought this was more of a tribute to Jane than a grand memorial.

‘What exactly do you do in the real world?’ Fran asked.

‘I run an early-years centre, working with babies and parents.’ Sarah looked up. Her face was flushed from the heat of the room. She switched on the machine and it started to churn.