It came to Vera suddenly that Hector had come to Harbour Street, at the time when Margaret was operating out of this house. He’d known Malcolm Kerr and had hired his boat to raid birds’ eggs. He’d probably been served in the Coble by the fat landlady in the picture over the bar. Had Hector been one of Margaret’s clients? Had he slipped through the shadows from the boatyard and let himself into the big house on the corner? Had he knocked on her door?

A sudden detour. A swerve. Across the road towards the church, because Vera heard organ music. Slow and joyless. A half-remembered Christmas carol, murdered by the organist. No accompanying singing, so there was no service. This was practice, perhaps and Christ, did the organist need it!

Vera pushed open the door. Inside it was dark, apart from a light above the organ. The noise stopped with a screech and a very old voice called out, terrified. ‘Hello, is that you, Father?’ And of course she had a right to be scared because two women had been murdered.

Vera called back. ‘No, I was just looking for the priest.’

‘Father Gruskin went out.’ The woman was still suspicious, but terror was replaced by curiosity. ‘What do you want?’

‘Do you know where he is?’

‘He’s out at that place for fallen women.’ Spitting out the words. Contemptuous.

Vera wondered how Margaret could have continued to worship here, surrounded by all this spiteful virtue. After all, it was easy enough to be virtuous if there was no temptation. She should know. She left the church, allowing the door to close behind her with a satisfying crash. The noise carried her across the street to Kerr’s yard.

The double gates were unpadlocked. Kate Dewar’s lad Ryan was sanding the hull of a dinghy; the grating sound of the machine jarred her nerves and prevented him from hearing her. She went up to him and waved in front of his face and he turned it off.

‘I’m looking for Malcolm,’ she said.

‘He’s not here.’ He smiled at her. ‘Sorry.’ He rubbed his hand along the smooth hull of the dinghy, almost a caress.

‘It’s bloody freezing out here,’ she said. ‘Come into Malcolm’s shed for a minute. I could do with a chat.’

He seemed reluctant to leave the boat, but he followed her.

‘You enjoy your work don’t you?’ she said.

‘Yeah.’ He seemed embarrassed by the admission.

‘Any chance Malcolm would take you on when you leave school?’ She pushed a charred black kettle onto the top of the stove.

‘Maybe.’ He paused. ‘I’m not sure how that would work, though. I’ve got plans. I’d want to be the boss. You could make real money out of the place.’

She raised her eyebrows. Money had never motivated her. ‘Tea?’ She nodded towards the kettle.

‘Eh,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that theft?’