‘I’m sorry, Inspector, we’ve just taken another emergency resident. I’m afraid that we have no vacancies.’ The phone went dead.

Out in the street, Vera looked briefly into the Coble, thinking that Dee might be there. It was still early and almost empty. In the bar a couple of elderly men played dominoes. There was no sign of the woman, and Vera knew better than to look in the lounge. That wasn’t Dee’s territory. On impulse she went into the fish shop and bought two haddock and chips to take away. Even wrapped in paper and in a carrier bag, the smell walked with her down the alley between the church and the Metro line.

She walked quickly up the concrete stairs of the flats, feeling the strain on her legs from when she’d climbed the ladder at the harbour. Eh, Vera, pet, you’d best catch this killer quickly or there’s a danger that you’ll get fit. She knocked at Dee’s door, but didn’t expect an immediate response. When they’d turned up there before, the woman had checked who was on the doorstep before letting them in. There could be a man from the council in the corridor wanting his rent, or some irate wife. Dee had at least some notion of self-preservation.

But the door opened when Vera hit it. She stayed where she was and shouted in. ‘Are you there, Dee? It’s Vera Stanhope. I’ve brought fish and chips.’

Still no reply. Vera set the carrier bag on the floor in the corridor outside and went in, noticing again the stain of damp on the wall by the door. The living room was empty. The empty paper bag that had held the cakes she’d brought as a previous peace offering still lay ripped on the table.

‘Dee, are you there?’

The bedroom door was shut and Vera listened before going in. Not through embarrassment, but because she wanted to know what to expect before she burst in on Dee Robson at work. Silence. Vera opened the door. In the bedroom Dee lay on the mattress staring at Vera. She was dressed for work: short skirt and white lacy top, shiny white plastic shoes. Glitter blue eyeshadow and pink lipstick slightly smudged. There was a kitchen knife in the side of her neck. It was the knife with which Vera had cut the custard slice the day before.

Blood had pooled under her head and her neck, a dark background to the very pale skin. Her skin was icy blue, except where her bare legs touched the mattress, and there it was dark, almost purple. The flesh looked like plastic. Vera was reminded of a big blow-up doll. The woman had probably died not long after she and Joe had visited the previous day.

Vera went to the hall to make the phone call. She smelled the fish and chips and was almost sick.