Hubert Rolfe was dozing on one of the iron benches which had been set along the edge of the green. He might have begun to watch the game, but when Claire reached him, his eyes were shut and he was snoring gently. When she woke him, he startled but remained in the same position, his legs stretched out before him, his head tilted slightly back.

“Who are you?” he asked sharply. “What do you want?” His voice had strong Lancastrian vowels, and she thought he would always feel himself a stranger in this city.

She showed him her warrant card. “ I wanted to ask for your help,” she said. “ It’s about Louis Rosco.”

“Why? I thought he was out. What’s he been up to now?”

“He’s been taken into custody in Cornwall. A young man was drowned, and it’s turned out to be murder. My superintendent thinks Rosco is responsible.”

“It doesn’t sound likely to me,” Rolfe said. Claire thought he must have cultivated his north-country accent for years, determined not to be taken for one of those west-country yokels. “Rosco’s no murderer. Not unless he’s changed.”

“Tell me about the original offence,” she said. “Tell me about the fire.”

Then at last he sat upright and alert on the bench, no longer half-asleep with his eyes closed against the sun. He looked more like a soldier than a policeman. His hair was shaved very short at the back and sides, and he had a small grey moustache. She came to realise that he was slightly mad.

“The city around the docks was a different place then,” he said. “That was before the developers got their hands on it. There were rough pubs, still a lot of derelict land after the war, a few old girls on the game.… Not that what we’ve got now is any improvement.”

She nodded to show she was listening but knew he would have to tell the story in his own way.

“Then there was the boat yard,” he said. “Sinclair’s boat yard. The owner was a Scot. It wasn’t a flash place, but it was known for the quality of the workmanship. Mostly it took on refits, repairs, and occasionally they would be commissioned to do a one-off.” He looked at her strangely. “I used to call in there a lot,” he said. “I like boats. I had dreams at one time of building one myself, taking off around the world. But there was always work and the kids to feed. And now I’m too old.”

He paused, trying to re-create the excitement of the old dream and failing. “I used to call in,” he repeated, “so I knew Rosco before he was arrested for the fire. I had a lot of time for him. He was a grafter. Not showy but reliable.”