She would never think it reasonable that the man who had been living with Kelsey should be questioned about her death. Strike, who had heard the testimony of Brittany Brockbank and Rhona Laing and many others like them, knew that most women’s rapists and killers were not strangers in masks who reached out of the dark space under the stairs. They were the father, the husband, the mother’s or the sister’s boyfriend…

Hazel wiped the tears away as fast as they fell onto her round cheeks, then suddenly asked:

“What did you do with her silly letter anyway?”

“My assistant put it in the drawer where we keep unusual correspondence,” said Strike.

“The police said you never wrote back to her. They say they was forged, the letters they found.”

“That’s right,” said Strike.

“So whoever done it must’ve known she was interested in you.”

“Yes,” said Strike.

Hazel blew her nose vigorously, then asked:

“D’you want a cuppa, then?”

He accepted only because he thought she wanted a chance to pull herself together. Once she had left the room he looked around openly. The only photograph stood on a small nest of tables in the corner beside him. It showed a beaming woman in her sixties wearing a straw hat. This, he assumed, was Hazel and Kelsey’s mother. A slightly darker stripe on the surface of the table beside the picture suggested that another had stood beside it, preventing the sun bleaching that small strip on the cheap wood. Strike guessed that this had been the school photograph of Kelsey, the picture that all the papers had printed.

Hazel returned carrying a tray bearing mugs of tea and a plate of biscuits. After she had carefully positioned his tea on a coaster beside her mother’s photograph, Strike said:

“I hear Kelsey had a boyfriend.”

“Rubbish,” retorted Hazel, dropping back into her armchair. “More porkies.”

“What makes you—?”

“She said his name was Niall. Niall. Honestly.”

Her eyes leaked more tears. Strike was at a loss to understand why Kelsey’s boyfriend might not have been called Niall and his incomprehension showed.

“One Direction,” she said over the top of her tissue.

“Sorry,” said Strike, completely at sea. “I don’t—”

“The band. They’re a band that came third on The X Factor. She’s obsessed—she was obsessed—and Niall was her favorite. So when she says she’s met a boy called Niall and he’s eighteen and he’s got a motorbike, I mean, what were we supposed to think?”

“Ah. I see.”

“She said she met him at the counselor’s. She’s been seeing a counselor, see. Claimed she met Niall in the waiting room, that he was there because his mum and dad died, like hers. We never saw hide nor hair of him. I said to Ray, ‘She’s at it again, she’s fibbing,’ and Ray said to me, ‘Let it go, it keeps her happy,’ but I didn’t like her lying,” said Hazel with a fanatic glare. “She lied all the time, came home with a plaster on her wrist, said it was a cut and it turned out to be a One Direction tattoo. Look at her saying she was going away on a college placement, look at that… she kept lying and lying and look where it got her!”