Outside, there was an odd milky light. Thin cloud obscured the sun and Vera thought she could smell snow. She decided that as soon as it started, she’d head for home. She needed a night in her own bed and a chance to think things through. Her neighbours would have cleared the track by now and would make sure she got out in the morning. It was lunchtime. There were school kids queuing up at the chip shop, some only in their uniform sweatshirts, seeming not to feel the cold. She thought she caught a glimpse of Chloe Dewar with some boy, but she couldn’t be certain. Teenage girls all looked alike to her.

Kerr’s boatyard was surrounded by tall spiked railings, and you got into it through double wooden gates. Trawling back through her memory, Vera thought they’d met the men here, that night she’d gone with Hector on his raid of roseate terns’ eggs. Then they’d gone to the harbour and into a boat. Not the tripper boat, the Lucy-May, but a small boat with a powerful outboard. She tried to picture some sort of office, but nothing came. The gate’s padlock was open, but the gate had sunk on its hinges now and she had to lift and push it against the snow to get inside. There was no immediate sign of Kerr, but a track through the snow led to a shed made of planks and corrugated iron, and that was where she found him. It had one small window, so grubby that it was hard to see inside, but she made out a shape slumped in a battered armchair and she tapped on the glass. There was no movement and for a moment her imagination ran wild. Another murder. Or a suicide. Plenty of tools to stab a woman with, in a place like this. And knives to slash your wrists with, if the guilt got too much.

She knocked on the glass again, this time more fiercely, and Kerr stirred in his chair, then got to his feet. Before he had the chance to come out to her, she opened the door and went inside.

It felt suddenly very warm. There was a tiny wood-burning stove in the corner and the place smelled of smoke and sweat. He’d drunk too much and slept too little. She recognized the signs.

‘Who the fuck are you?’

‘Vera Stanhope,’ she said. She didn’t mind the question. She could be like a bear with a sore head too with a hangover. ‘Detective Inspector.’

‘Stanhope.’ He repeated the name as if he recognized it.

‘Aye, I think you knew my dad.’ She thought Hector must have worked with this man over a number of years. Kerr wouldn’t remember the name after just one outing. Where else had he taken Hector in his rubber dinghy? What other eggs had they stolen together?