Vera stood up to go to the bathroom. Looking at her watch, she saw that it was eleven o’clock. She’d been sitting here for more than an hour. She pulled back the curtain and looked outside. Closing time at the Coble, and a scattering of drinkers were making their way back to the town centre. There was a light on in the church. As she watched, the lights went out and the door opened. The priest emerged, still clothed in his black robes.

What have you been praying for, Father? Margaret Krukowski’s immortal soul? Or your own?

The police station at Kimmerston was freezing. The snow had brought down the power lines and cut off the electricity overnight. The power was back on now, but the timer was out and the heating had only just come on. They sat in their jackets, wrapped up in scarves and gloves. A good night’s sleep and a full English breakfast had Vera feeling on top form.

She stood before the whiteboard. There was a recent photo of Margaret Krukowski, donated by Kate. It had been taken when the woman hadn’t been expecting it. She was standing at the table in the basement kitchen, a biscuit cutter in one hand, and she’d looked up at the camera at the last minute. Her expression was startled and amused. Vera had also brought Margaret’s wedding photo from the guest house. Sometimes she thought that the younger members of her team considered older people a different species. Close to death anyway, so not worth the same effort. Not like a child or a teenager. They would never say that, probably would not even think it consciously, but Vera hoped this picture of a young and beautiful woman would jerk them out of that mindset. Once she was young and just like you.

‘Margaret Krukowski. Stabbed on the Metro yesterday afternoon. Apparently without anyone seeing – though the Metro was so busy that’s not as impossible as it seems. People would have heard if she’d screamed loudly, but probably not a moan. Nightmare scenario, but this time we’re lucky because there was an expert witness on hand throughout. That’s right, isn’t it, Joe?’

Joe smiled. She thought all his bairns must have slept well and he’d had a good night. He and Sal were getting on at the moment and that always improved his mood. ‘I was in the same carriage,’ he said. ‘But a few rows away from her. And the place was jammed. You know what it’s like just before Christmas and the rush hour.’

She nodded. ‘All the same,’ she said. ‘Give us what you remember.’ She listened as he told his story again and listed the characters he could recall. There were no omissions and no elaboration. He was a good witness. She’d trained him well.