She slammed her palm so hard onto her desk that the skin stung. As soon as she replaced the receiver there was another call. Kerr’s car had been found at the station car park at Partington. So he’d got onto the Metro and could have taken off from Newcastle Central Station and be anywhere in the country by now. Or he could have taken the Metro to the airport and be anywhere in the world. But Vera didn’t see Malcolm as an international traveller. Did he even have a passport? Vera was back on the phone checking, when Holly knocked at the door. Tentative, but also smug. Vera hated it when Holly was smug.

‘Boss?’

Vera waved her in.

‘I’ve tracked down Pawel Krukowski.’ Holly sat on the chair on the other side of the desk.

‘What do you mean you’ve tracked him down? He’s in a hole in the ground in Mardle. Unless Paul Keating has authorized removal of the remains to the mortuary.’

‘No, boss, he’s not.’ Holly paused. ‘He’s running a tour company in Krakow, arranging travel to the UK for students and workers. He lives with a Polish woman and they have three kids and five grandkids.’

Vera’s mind went blank with panic. ‘It could be some other Krukowski.’ Knowing that she was clutching at straws and that her whole case was falling apart.

Holly shook her head. ‘I’ve talked to him. He speaks good English. He left the country in 1970. He married Margaret because he thought she was rich. When he found out she didn’t have any of her own money, he waited for a couple of years to see if her parents would relent and welcome them back into the bosom of the family. When they didn’t, he pissed off home.’

‘What was the date of the office fire in Kerr’s yard?’ Vera kept the panic at bay by demanding facts.

‘The fifteenth of July 1975.’ Holly could do facts like nobody else in the team.

‘The same day as Billy Kerr’s birthday.’ This was Joe, still in his coat, leaning in through the open door.

‘And that’s relevant why?’ Vera was shouting now. Knowing she’d cocked up and needing to vent her anger.

‘Because they were all there, at the Coble to celebrate.’ Joe brought a tattered photograph from his pocket and laid it on the desk so that they could all see it. He leaned across and stuck his finger on each of the characters in turn. ‘This is Val Butt, landlady. She took over the licence that year, moved to Mardle after some bother with gangs in the West End. That was what she implied, at least.’

‘You’ve spoken to her?’

‘I told you I did. I was there this morning.’