Another flurry of sleet rattled against the windscreen. It was so noisy that she had to ask Joe to repeat his next words.

‘What now?’ he asked.

‘We go quietly,’ she said. ‘We need proof this time. No press and no fuss. You just find your Jessie.’

Emily lived in a big house on the outskirts of Tynemouth. It was new and grand, built of raw red brick with porticoes at the front. Through the big living-room window Vera saw a white leather sofa and a flat-screen television. An artificial Christmas tree that almost looked real and a pile of wrapped presents underneath. It came to Vera suddenly that, for Margaret Krukowski, a place like this would be like hell. Much better the life of a call girl operating out of a shabby house in Mardle. And that she still hadn’t bought the Secret Santa gift for Holly. She rang the doorbell.

The door was opened by a man in a polo shirt and chinos. The heat spilled out from the hall. Inside he’d need no warmer clothes. ‘Yes?’ His voice posh Geordie. A businessman in mufti, Vera thought.

‘Could I speak to Emily, please?’ She was aware that she looked even scruffier than usual. No sleep and a hangover, and no time to wash any clothes during the investigation, never mind iron them. She gave what she hoped was a winning smile.

The man looked at her as if she was a tinker selling clothes pegs and didn’t bother wasting words on her. Instead he yelled into the house, ‘Jackie, there’s someone here to see your daughter.’

Your daughter. So he must be the stepfather. And the girl was getting in the way.

He didn’t invite her in. Vera stood on the doorstep and waited. Eventually a large woman with an unseasonal tan and a lot of gold jewellery appeared. Her blonde hair was fake, but the tan seemed real. Vera wondered if Emily had been admitted into the Haven to allow the adults to take a holiday somewhere hot.

‘Yes?’ Emily’s mother wasn’t as hard as she first appeared. A troubled woman with a nervous tic and a tense smile. A woman who felt obliged to mediate between the two important people in her life.

Just dump him, Vera wanted to say. There are worse things than being single. She decided that there were different forms of prostitution. Maybe Margaret’s form wasn’t the most degrading.

‘I think Emily might be able to help me,’ Vera said. ‘She’s not in any bother, but I wonder if we might have a chat.’

‘Are you a social worker?’

Good God, do I look like a social worker?