Vera could imagine that. Enderby with his spy stories, watching the action playing out in front of him, thinking that he could outwit the police. She paused and came to a decision. ‘Hol, you carry on the good work here. Any connection between Enderby and Margaret or Dee, we want to know about it. He told me that he supported Margaret’s good causes with cash. Did he help out more directly, go to the Haven or meet up with Dee Robson at any time? Let’s make some connections. Joe, you’re with me.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘To the Coble. If Enderby was heading in that direction the day Margaret died, that’s probably where he ended up. Let’s go and see.’

The pub was closed. Outside a scattering of cigarette ends on the pavement and, even from where they stood, the smell of stale beer. Inside a tiny woman was pushing a Hoover across the floor. It was as big as she was. Vera banged on the window, but the woman didn’t hear until she turned off the machine. She shook her head and pointed to her watch. Vera held up her warrant card to the dirty window and eventually the door was unbolted.

‘Do you run this place?’

‘Nah, I’m just the cleaner.’ She was nervous. Vera suspected she was paid cash in hand and still claimed benefit.

‘Who does?’

‘Lawrence. He lives in the flat upstairs.’

‘Well, give him a shout, pet. Then you can get on.’

‘I’ll unlock the door and you can go up yourself.’ She was as skinny and shapeless as a ten-year-old girl. Nicotine on her fingers, and Vera could tell she was desperate for a tab. She’d be outside on the pavement smoking as soon as she’d got rid of them.

She led them through the lounge bar to a back corridor and took a string of keys on a chain from her apron pocket. Vera was reminded of a prison officer at locking-up time.

Lawrence was up, but only just. He was wearing jogging bottoms and a vest and his feet were bare. Vera had knocked on the door at the top of the narrow stairs, Joe standing behind her. The landlord was probably expecting the cleaner, a demand for payment or for new dusters.

‘Who are you?’ A giant of a man, but somehow gentle with it. Vera would have sworn like a trooper, if strangers had turned up in her home at this hour of the morning. He stood back to let them in. The room looked out over Harbour Street and onto the water.

‘Were you in the bar on the night Margaret Krukowski was murdered in the Metro?’

‘I was working early on,’ he said, ‘but not when the news first came through. The other bar staff had come in by then and I was up here, taking my break.’

‘Quiet, was it, early on?’