The lounge was empty, but there was a tea tray on a small table. The presence of the tray seemed to bother their hostess. She kept glancing towards it apologetically. Joe followed them and took a seat by the gas fire.

‘Nice place,’ he said. ‘Cosy.’

The woman smiled and seemed to relax a little.

‘Could you give us your name, please?’ Joe again.

‘Dewar.’ The woman had her back to Vera now. ‘Kate Dewar.’

The door opened and they were interrupted by a large, bald man with a pleasant smile and an easy manner.

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘More guests, Kate? More waifs from the storm?’ He turned so that his smile included Vera and Joe. ‘You’re very welcome.’ It could have been his home. ‘Would you like tea? I’m sure there’s plenty in the pot, and Kate will bring more cups.’

‘These aren’t guests, George. These are police officers.’ Was there a warning in the words? Watch what you say.

‘Ah,’ he said. He stopped for a beat and looked round awkwardly. ‘I’ll be in the way then. Don’t want to intrude. I’ll take the tea to my room, shall I?’ Picking up the tray, he walked out without a backward glance. Vera thought she’d have been too curious to do that. She’d have asked if she could help, found some excuse to hang around and find out what was going on.

‘A guest?’ She nodded towards the door.

‘George Enderby, one of my regulars.’

‘And Margaret Krukowski? Is she one of your regulars? Only she’s given this as her address.’

‘Margaret? Is she ill? Is that why you’re here?’

Vera sensed relief in the voice and wondered what else the woman might have to fear from a visit from the police. ‘Margaret does live here then? A relative, is she?’

‘Not a relative. A friend. And an employee, I suppose. She helps out in the house. We run the place together.’ A flashed smile. ‘I couldn’t manage without her.’

Vera leaned forward and kept her voice gentle. ‘Margaret Krukowski’s dead,’ she said. ‘She was stabbed in the Metro on her way home from town this afternoon. I need you to tell me all about her.’

Chapter Four

Vera wondered, as she sat in the hot lounge, if it was still snowing. If it was, she thought she probably wouldn’t get up the steep hill to the house where she’d lived since she was a child, even in the Land Rover. But this would probably be an all-nighter anyway, so there was no point worrying about that.

Kate Dewar was sitting on the edge of one of the heavy sofas, crying. No fuss or noise, but silent tears. Joe Ashworth had provided her with a small packet of tissues. He was like a Boy Scout, Joe. Always prepared.