‘I’m a rep for a publishing company. Almost an endangered species, but I’m one of the few survivors and I hope I can hang on until I retire. And I do love it.’ He stared wistfully into the fire. ‘I read, you see. It’s an addiction. Not a requirement for the job, though. In fact, almost a hindrance in some ways. Hard to press a title onto a reluctant bookseller when you think it’s crap yourself. But I’ve built my contacts now. Sympathetic buyers. Managers in some of the big retail chains, owners of a smattering of lovely indies. I understand what will work best for them.’

‘An odd time of year to be selling books, I’d have thought.’ Vera spoke with that same light, almost flirtatious tone. ‘The stores will have their Christmas stock by now, surely. This time of year wouldn’t you all want to be back in London? Office parties. Sloping home early to fill the kiddies’ stockings.’

Enderby leaned forward, his voice earnest. ‘Actually, Inspector, I don’t really do Christmas. It sends me into a panic. I was glad to escape. And of course I have the new season’s titles to present.’

‘Of course.’ A silence.

‘Why do you stay in Harbour Street when you come north?’ She set down her cup on the low table beside her. A sign that she was taking the conversation more seriously now. ‘It’s hardly convenient for the motorway.’

‘But it is very restful, and I like it here. I found it through the Northumberland Tourism website five years ago and have been using it ever since. I have an aversion to bland and anonymous hotels, and Kate is an efficient and welcoming landlady. She looks after me very well.’

Joe thought that he was talking too much. Any one of those reasons would have been sufficient.

‘You knew Margaret Krukowski?’

‘Of course,’ Enderby said. ‘She was a lovely woman.’ He paused. ‘They made a great team, she and Kate. I do hope Kate has the strength to carry on alone. But perhaps she will have other plans now.’

‘Did you ever chat to Margaret?’ Vera looked directly at the man. ‘It seems to me that you’re someone who takes an interest in people, that you might have engaged her in conversation over the breakfast table.’

‘Oh, you know, the usual pleasantries.’ Enderby reached out for the teapot.

‘And what did you find out about her?’

‘Surprisingly little! She was always friendly, but somehow guarded. As if it had become a habit to keep her life secret.’ He gave a sudden charming smile. ‘I make up stories about people. Fantasies. Perhaps because I read so much. Sometimes I think I might write a novel of my own.’