‘That’s petty stuff. I don’t think anyone would give a toss so many years later.’

So, Joe thought, that’s put me in my place. Vera might have given the idea at least a moment’s consideration.

She moved forward, a star preparing to step into the spotlight. ‘Could the professor tell you anything about Pawel Krukowski, the husband?’

‘Nothing. He was already off the scene by the time Craggs got to know Margaret.’ Joe was going to offer up the photo album to Vera, but thought that the mood she was in now, elated and carried away with some theory of her own, she would only mock him for implying that it had any significance.

There was a silence. Vera looked out at them, and Joe saw that at least she was gearing up to share her grand idea. ‘I don’t believe that Pawel suddenly disappeared off the face of the Earth,’ she said. ‘Margaret could have been hiding more than the fact that she sold sex for a living.’ She looked around her and again she seemed to be expecting applause.

‘You think that she killed her husband?’ Joe thought Vera was entering the realm of fantasy now. Margaret Krukowski wasn’t a killer, but a victim.

‘I don’t know exactly what to think at this point.’ She glared at him. ‘We’re telling stories. Creating theories. But tomorrow we need to check some facts.’ She was back at the whiteboard and she wiped out a bare patch and started making notes. ‘Pawel Krukowski. What’s happened to him? I’m betting that he’s dead and, if he’s still alive and living happily in Warsaw, then I’ll be buying the carry-outs for the next five years. Charlie, you take over tracing him. First thing in the morning. Get our European colleagues to help out. Hol, you see if you can find any record of the fire at Malcolm’s yard, but don’t waste too much time on it.’

She stopped, her hand raised, holding the marker pen. ‘This Susan Coulson, did you meet her when you visited the Haven, Joe?’

Joe reeled back his memory and saw a grey-haired woman stirring soup, the tears rolling down her cheeks. He’d thought she was odd, overreacting to the death of a virtual stranger, but if she and Margaret had been friends for more than thirty years that would make more sense. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I met her.’

‘Chat to her. Away from the hostel, if you can manage it. Jane Cameron’s a control freak. It takes one to know one. And I don’t want her listening in.’ Vera paused again. ‘Bring her back to Harbour Street. Buy her a fish-and-chip dinner or a port and lemon in the Coble. See if you can jog any memories.’