The residents were sitting in a large and untidy kitchen. It was warmer there – heat came from a chipped and grubby Aga. Children’s paintings were stuck on the walls, the corners distorted with age. The dog had curled up in a basket near the stove. Mince pies cooled on a wire tray on the bench. Joe recognized Laurie, who’d been carting in the logs, and there were five others, ranging in age from a teenager – skinny and nervy with a pale, angelic face and long curly red hair – to an elderly woman who was stirring soup on the hob.

‘This is Sergeant Ashworth, girls, and he’s come to talk to us. I’ve suggested he join us for lunch.’ Jane put rolls onto a plate and took a tub of margarine from the fridge.

Laurie was laying the table and looked up. ‘What does he want?’

Joe stared back at her. ‘Margaret was murdered yesterday.’ He thought he might as well get this over. The soup smelled good, but he couldn’t imagine sitting at the table with them, putting questions while they all ate. Vera might be an expert at cosy chats. He preferred a proper formality.

Nobody moved. It was as if they were struggling to take in the news. He saw tears running down the cheeks of the old woman by the stove as she stirred the pan. The girl with the long, red hair was frozen like a statue.

‘Why the fuck would anyone kill Margaret?’ It was Laurie, so tense and angry that Joe thought she might be capable of murder. Jane put an arm around her shoulder and held her very tight, part comfort, part restraint. Laurie continued, looking round the room: ‘Well? She was amazing, wasn’t she? Everyone here adored her.’ She stared at Joe. ‘You can’t think we had anything to do with it?’

‘I think you might be able to help us find her killer.’

There was silence in the room. Outside it seemed suddenly very dark and a gust of wind blew a branch against the window. Jane moved away from Laurie to switch on the light.

‘Let’s eat,’ she said. ‘You know how Margaret liked good food. We can eat and remember her, and tell Joe everything we know about her.’

So despite his intentions and the flurries of snow that threatened to cut him off from the outside world, Joe found himself sitting at the table, sharing a meal with seven women, listening to their memories of Margaret Krukowski.