The door of the nearest house opened. The gray-haired woman who had been watching from the upper window appeared, pulling a tartan shopping trolley. Her expression was now cheery. Robin was sure that the woman had observed the police arrive and depart, and was satisfied that they were not spies.

“It’s always ’appening,” she called loudly, her voice ringing across the street. She pronounced “always” “orlwuz.” The accent was unfamiliar to Robin, who had thought she knew Cumbrian, hailing from the next county. “They’ve gor cameraz orl awwer. Teeking registrations. We’re orl used to it.”

“Spot the Londoners,” said Strike pleasantly, which made her pause, curious.

“From London? Wha’ brings th’all the way to Barra?”

“Looking for an old friend. Noel Brockbank,” said Strike, pointing down the street, “but there’s no answer at his house. He’ll be at work, I expect.”

She frowned a little.

“Noel, did th’say? Not Holly?”

“We’d love to see Holly, if she’s around,” said Strike.

“She’ll be at work noo,” said the neighbor, checking her watch. “Bak’ry awwer in Vickerstown. Or,” said the woman, with a trace of grim humor, “tha can try the Crow’s Nest tonight. She’s usually there.”

“We’ll try the bakery—surprise her,” said Strike. “Where is it exactly?”

“Little white one, just up the road from Vengeance Street.”

They thanked her and she set off along the road, pleased to have been helpful.

“Did I hear that right?” Strike muttered, shaking open his map once they were safely back in the Land Rover. “‘Vengeance Street’?”

“That’s what it sounded like,” said Robin.

The short journey took them across a bridge spanning the estuary, where sailing boats bobbed on dirty-looking water or sat marooned on mudflats. Utilitarian, industrial buildings along the shore gave way to more streets of terraced houses, some pebble-dashed, some of red brick.

“Ships’ names,” guessed Strike as they drove up Amphitrite Street.

Vengeance Street ran up a hill. A few minutes’ exploration of its vicinities revealed a little white-painted bakery.

“That’s her,” said Strike at once, as Robin pulled in with a clear view of the glass door. “Got to be his sister, look at her.”

The bakery worker looked, thought Robin, harder than most men. She had the same long face and high forehead as Brockbank; her flinty eyes were outlined in thick kohl, her jet-black hair scraped back into a tight, unflattering ponytail. The cap-sleeved black T-shirt, worn under a white apron, revealed thick bare arms that were covered in tattoos from shoulder to wrist. Multiple gold hoops hung from each ear. A vertical frown line between her eyebrows gave her a look of perpetual bad temper.

The bakery was cramped and busy. Watching Holly bag up pasties, Strike remembered his venison pies from Melrose and his mouth watered.

“I could eat again.”

“You can’t talk to her in there,” said Robin. “We’d do better to approach her at home, or in the pub.”

“You could nip in and get me a pasty.”

“We had rolls less than an hour ago!”