“Of course they didn’t,” Lindsay snorted. “But what I’ve been forgetting is that long before he was ever a full-time union official, Tom Jack used to be a bloody good investigative journalist. He knew every trick in the book, and a few that never made it that far. If he was sniffing around the inquest records, then at least one other person was as unhappy about Ian’s death as we are. And maybe what he found there is the reason he’s lying in the morgue now.”

“It seems a bit far-fetched. He can’t have had any proof, otherwise why would it take nine years for his discovery to catch up with him?”

Lindsay shrugged. “Dunno. But I’ll be a damn sight closer when I’ve read what’s in this envelope.” They had reached the car, and Lindsay drummed impatiently on its roof while she waited for Sophie to unlock the passenger door. As soon as she’d banged the door shut with a teeth-rattling slam, Lindsay grabbed the envelope, ripped it open and tipped the contents into her lap.

“I have a suggestion,” Sophie said. “Why don’t we go and find somewhere for lunch, then we can go through this stuff together.”

“Oh, all right,” Lindsay said resignedly. She shovelled the papers back into the envelope reluctantly. “I know a really good fish restaurant.”

“Well, it was nine years ago,” Lindsay said apologetically half an hour later. “And all these streets look the same in the fog. Try the next left.”

“We’ve been down there already. To hell with it, Lindsay, we’ll just stop at the next pub we come to and grab something there.” Sophie drove straight on, then turned right down a street she thought would bring her to one of the main roads.

“That’s it!” Lindsay suddenly shouted, waving her arm in front of Sophie, who was forced to stand on the brakes.

“That’s it?” Sophie demanded. “It looks just like a terraced house to me.”

“That’s right. They fry in the front room and they’ve got half a dozen tables in the back. It’s wonderful, I promise you.”

“It had better be,” Sophie said darkly as she followed Lindsay.

While they waited for one jumbo haddock and chips and one halibut steak and peas, Lindsay eagerly pulled out the coroner’s reports on Ian Ross’s death. She flicked through them, separating out the pathologist’s report and handing it to Sophie. “There you go, darling, your area of expertise.” Lindsay herself concentrated first on the report of the officer who had gone through Ian’s car to see if there were any physical reason why he had lost control of the car and had failed to brake.

When she got to the list of the car’s contents, she let out a low whistle. “You were right, Sophie,” she said. “Ian Ross was murdered. No question about it.”