Fiona stuck her head around the door. ‘We’ve got some info from the house-to-house,’ she said. ‘An insomniac who spends her nights staring out at the lane by her cottage. And her lane’s on the main route into the abattoir. She thinks she saw Violet.’

‘Sounds helpful.’

‘Yeah. She was sure she saw a small, green car drive past in the direction of the abattoir at quarter to ten. And Violet’s car’s small and green, so that ties in with Tony Nightingale saying she left his farm around nine thirty.’

‘Okay, so it looks like he might have been the last person to speak to her.’

‘Yes. And this woman – a Mrs Ackroyd – was sure no other cars passed her that night, although there is another way to the abattoir – you just have to go down a really narrow lane.’

Mrs Ackroyd could of course be mistaken, as witnesses frequently were. I’d learned that the more vehement the account and detailed the description, the more likely it was that the large, black man with a beard was in fact a small, white man with a moustache. Still, if Mrs Ackroyd was right, Violet had driven from Tony Nightingale’s and gone to work at the abattoir as normal. But then what?

‘I’ve tracked down Tony Nightingale’s daughter, Bex,’ Fiona said, ‘who we thought might be the birth mother. She’s a dog trainer who lives just south of Nottingham. She says Violet’s not her child and she refuses to go anywhere near Gritton, or to a police station.’

Another one? Hadn’t Daniel Twigg said his mum refused to go to Gritton? What was it about that place? ‘Oh great,’ I said. ‘Do we know why?’

‘She won’t say, but she was very adamant.’

‘And she says Violet’s not her child? Did she have a baby at that time?’

‘Her answers were evasive.’

‘Arrange for us to go to her,’ I said. ‘This sounds interesting. And let’s have a closer look at Tony Nightingale. If Violet is his granddaughter, what are the implications of her turning up out of the blue? Could he have travelled with her to the abattoir? And what about his other daughter, Kirsty? Would it affect her inheritance or anything like that?’

‘I’ll look into it.’ Fiona left in a cloud of competence. Whatever it was that had been distracting her, she’d let it go.

My phone rang. Anna Finchley from the abattoir. ‘You’d better come and see this.’ Her voice was flat. ‘The Animal Vigilantes have put a banner up. Threatening us. It’s horrible.’

‘We’ll be right over.’

I found Jai in our tiny, sticky-surfaced kitchen, making tea. He turned to me, balancing a spent teabag on a fork. ‘Never interrupt a man who’s mashing.’

‘Even for a trip to the abattoir?’

‘Crikey, you know how to offer a guy a good time.’