Joe felt as though he had lost the thread of the conversation now, with no real idea what Enderby was on about, or how it could be relevant to the investigation, but Vera seemed to be keeping up. ‘And what was your story for Margaret Krukowski?’

‘That she’d been a spy left behind when the Cold War ended. Given a new identity.’ He smiled again and his face lit up. ‘Quite ridiculous, of course, just because she had a Polish name! I’ve always allowed my imagination to run away from me.’

Vera smiled too, but it was the tight, rather disapproving smile of a teacher who is starting to lose patience with a favourite pupil.

‘We’ll stick to reality then, shall we? After five years you must know something about the woman.’

‘I fear the reality was rather more mundane. Margaret Krukowski was articulate, intelligent and well read. Attractive still, for her age. Mardle seemed an odd place for her to have landed up. I could have imagined her in a rather nice flat in Tynemouth or Jesmond. But I assume she had no money. She was a good cook – these biscuits will have been hers, and she baked rolls and pastries for breakfast. She was a regular church-goer. Given to good causes. She cost me a fortune in raffle tickets for every charity from the lifeboat association to the Red Cross.’ He paused. ‘I did wonder if she’d once been a victim of domestic abuse. One of her charities was a women’s refuge, and she seemed more devoted to that than to any of the others. I came up specially a couple of weeks ago to act as Father Christmas for its winter fair. She was a very persuasive woman and very committed to that particular cause.’ He stopped short. ‘Sorry, Inspector, take no notice – I’m telling myself stories again. Rambling.’

Joe thought that was the way Vera Stanhope worked too. She was always making up stories throughout an investigation. Only she called them theories.

‘Did she ever mention her family?’ Vera was back to specifics.

Enderby paused for a moment and stared into the fire. Joe couldn’t tell whether he was trying to remember or playing for time.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t think the subject of family ever came up. Women of that age usually have somebody, don’t they? Grandchildren or great-nephews or -nieces. They bring out the photos at the least excuse. But not Margaret. She mentioned her ex-husband from time to time. Rather a rogue, by the sound of it. A rogue and a chancer.’

Joe was wondering what Vera had made of the comments about lonely old women, but if she was hurt by them she gave no sign.

‘Had she seen him at all since they separated all those years ago?’