Later, when the house was quiet and tidy, she sat on the sofa in the kitchen and dozed a little; a new folk band recommended by Stuart was playing in the background and the voices sounded somehow like waves on shingle, blurred and soporific. She was shocked by the ringing on the doorbell. The detective had said that some officers would be in during the morning to search Margaret’s room. This was a piece of information she hadn’t passed on to George Enderby. His eagerness to discuss Margaret’s death had seemed a little tasteless to her, and unlike his usual courtesy. Now she supposed that the search team must be here and she rushed to let them in. She didn’t want Father Gruskin and his coven of elderly admirers to see a group of uniformed officers on the doorstep. Rumours spread like wildfire in Mardle.

But there were no policemen in the street. Instead it was Malcolm Kerr, the boatman. Sometimes Ryan helped him out in the yard for pocket money, and from her son she’d picked up snippets of gossip about his divorce, and the move from the big house in Warkworth to the ex-council place on Percy Street. His skin was very grey. He’d shaved badly and his eyes seemed yellow and bloodshot all at once. Because he’d stepped back onto the pavement their faces were on the same level and she noticed the whiff of stale alcohol on his breath.

‘Malcolm.’ She didn’t invite him into the house. Although she didn’t know him well herself, he had a reputation for being an awkward customer – taciturn, always moaning. Her first thought was that Ryan had done something to annoy him. She’d always thought Malcolm liked having him hanging around the yard, but Ryan had become a mystery to her.

‘It’s about Margaret,’ he said. ‘Can I come in?’ And he quickly moved up the steps towards her so that her immediate reaction was to move out of his way before he knocked into her. Then he was in the house. She took him into the guest lounge, because it was nearer the front door; somehow she felt better speaking to Malcolm if she knew she could escape. Something about this man, intense and frowning, scared her. His yard had been on Harbour Street since before she’d moved in, for many years, she believed. He was a fixture like the church and the pub. He’d taken over from his father as boatman to Coquet Island and he’d been coxswain of the lifeboat until recent years. Stalwart of the town. Grumpy, but reliable. She’d never really taken any notice of him. Now she wondered if he was suffering from some sort of mental illness.

‘What do you want, Malcolm?’ He was a good distance from her in a corner by the fire. She kept her voice calm. It was important not to make him angry.