But Vera thought the information only made the murders more complex and subtle. There was the relationship with Malcolm Kerr, for example. Had he known how Margaret earned her living? Surely he must have done. And how had that worked, when he was so obviously in love with her? He’s protecting her honour even now, Vera thought, though she failed to define the relationship. Then: Who else knew?

For some time she’d been unaware of her surroundings and only now realized that she was outside the high school. Ugly brick and concrete, with a fence that made it look like a prison. Bars on some of the windows too. Presumably an attempt to stop vandalism, but they made Vera want to hurl bricks. This was the outside limit of the boundary to the case. A profiler would make a map and put pins in it. This is where all the major players live. Except for the Haven, Vera thought suddenly. The old rectory was out of the town, but it was at the heart of the case too. Many of the people involved in the case had been there on the afternoon of their winter fair. Margaret had wanted to discuss a problem with Jane Cameron. Her illness or something else? Could one of the older residents have been in the same business and recognized her? Vera would have liked to go to the Haven herself. She would have been patient with the women, teasing out their memories. But how would Holly develop as a detective if Vera never gave her the chance to go it alone?

She turned and headed back towards Harbour Street, her flat shoes beating a rhythm on the pavement. At the Metro she stopped and turned up the alley to Percy Street. The CSIs were still in Dee Robson’s flat. The crime-scene tape twisted outside looked strangely festive against the grey building. Vera knocked at Malcolm Kerr’s door. No answer. Almost without pausing she turned again, carried along by the same beat, the same thoughts rapping in her brain.

Past the guest house. The day so dark that the light was on in the basement kitchen and the domestic scene inside played out like a soap opera for passers-by. Kate Dewar at the table, ladling soup from a bowl. God, I’m hungry, Vera thought. And beside Kate stood Stuart. Her lover. Had he confessed to his youthful indiscretions, despite Joe asking him not to? If I could get a good man like that, I wouldn’t mind what he’d got up to thirty years ago. He looked serious, but then he always looked serious. There was no clue to the conversation. No sign of the kids, though, and he’d have sent them away before starting to talk.