‘Novels – all sorts. Historical, thrillers. She likes Jane Eyre – reads it over and over again. Lately she’s been reading a lot of YA, she calls it – young adult. Well, I suppose she is one but it means younger, really, doesn’t it? All teenagers and girls with crossbows. Fantasy. And she likes cooking. Those are hers.’ She pointed to a stack of books on the counter: Ottolenghi and Polpo, two River Cafés. ‘She loves the Bake Off, all those cookery shows on Saturday morning. She watches them then goes shopping down Stratford Road, comes back and cooks. It’s not all my taste, what she makes. Too … herby. Lentils, little beans. What’s that funny stuff – tabbouleh? But she’s good at it.’

‘Wish I was,’ said Maggie.

‘So she’s a homebody, would you say?’

‘No, I wouldn’t. She’s … a mixture. She likes her cooking and her books but if I said she was always sensible … She drinks. She goes out. She’s not a wallflower.’

‘You said she’s not an addict; have you ever suspected she might be taking drugs at all?’ Robin asked.

‘No.’ She seemed to hesitate. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Remember, we’re not police,’ Maggie said. ‘The objective here would be to find Becca, not get her into trouble. Knowing about drugs is for us, to make sure we have the whole picture. We’re not going to go to the police about personal drug use, okay?’

‘Right. Well, maybe. I don’t know. Nothing … serious.’

In the bag at her feet, Maggie’s phone started ringing. ‘I’m sorry, Valerie.’ She took it out, looked at the screen then stood. ‘Will you excuse me a moment?’ She pointed to the hallway. ‘Hello?’ The tinny sound of a male voice on the other end that faded as she moved away.

Valerie Woodson looked at Robin, expectant, and for a moment she was thrown. What now? Her instinct – her training, so ingrained it was second nature at this point – was to get details of Rebecca’s associates, her employers, friends, exes, but how did Maggie work? Did she have to agree formally to take on the case? Did she want to? Writing down names would look like a commitment. And what about Valerie’s side of it – was there some kind of contract? A fee? What were Maggie’s terms?

She played for time. ‘How long have you lived here?’

‘Since I was born,’ Valerie said. ‘I’m the only original Brit on the street now. My parents bought the house in the Fifties, I’ve never lived anywhere else. My dad retired about the time I met Graeme and we bought it from them. They moved out to Worcestershire, bought a bungalow near Inkberrow.’

‘Nice.’ Jesus, the idea of living in one house your whole life. ‘Did you ever see any evidence of Rebecca using drugs?’

The non sequitur took Valerie aback, unsurprisingly. ‘What do you mean?’