Vera sensed the impatience in Joe’s voice. Did he think she was losing her grip? Perhaps he was right. ‘Of course you did, pet. Go on.’

‘That’s Billy Kerr.’ And Vera could see the resemblance to Malcolm. Billy was more squat, bluff and robust, but the family resemblance was there in the face. ‘Mike Craggs, now Professor Craggs, then a postdoctoral student; Malcolm Kerr; Margaret of course. And that’s Val’s son Rick.’

Vera looked up. ‘Have you told me about him before?’

Joe nodded. ‘Susan Coulson mentioned him. She said he used to make fun of her.’ He paused. ‘I had the impression that she was scared of him. I’ve just checked out his record. He was in lots of trouble as a lad, hanging around with the West End hard men. No convictions since 1974.’

‘How old would he be now?’

‘Sixty-six.’

‘And where’s he living?’ Vera looked at him.

‘No record that he’s living anywhere. And no record that he’s lived anywhere since the mid-Seventies.’

Silence. In the open-plan office outside there was the murmur of voices.

‘And you think maybe he’s that pile of bones under Malcolm Kerr’s shed.’ Vera leaned back against her desk and tried to picture how that would work. Why would Malcolm Kerr have killed the landlady’s son. A drunken scrap at his father’s birthday party? And what relevance could that have to Margaret Krukowski, forty years later?

Joe Ashworth shrugged. ‘Well, we know it’s not Pawel Krukowski.’

Suddenly Vera thought that she couldn’t stay in the building any longer. She’d start climbing the walls or screaming like a lunatic. ‘I’m going to talk to the mother.’ She struggled into her jacket and headed for the door. ‘You hold the fort here. Let me know if they manage to track down Malcolm.’ The last sentence was shouted back over her shoulder as she ran down the stairs.

Vera saw the woman through the window. She was leaning back on a sofa, with her legs propped in front of her, staring at a television. A piece of tinsel strung along the mantelpiece was the only concession to the season. Vera thought she’d better start swimming again and lose a bit of weight. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be old and trapped inside a monstrous body, force-fed crap TV, like Valerie Butt. She rapped on the window to get the woman’s attention. Val waved to her to come in. The door was already unlocked. Perhaps she was waiting for someone.

‘Another cop?’ Val pressed a button and switched the sound off the television. Pictures of smart country houses continued to roll across the screen.

‘We’ve found another body.’ Vera squeezed beside her on the sofa. There was nowhere else to sit.

When Val didn’t respond, she added, ‘Tell me about your lad, Rick.’

This time there was a flicker of interest.