She had woken up early and lay, quite still so she would not disturb Richard, thinking of the Franks murder. It seemed to her now that Palmer-Jones had been right, and it was unlikely that the murder was premeditated. If anyone had planned to kill the young man, they would surely have chosen somewhere less public, less exposed. Was the crime then purely opportunistic, a spur-of-themoment decision to settle an old score? Or had something happened on Friday night or Saturday morning to drive someone to murder? In any event, Claire thought it inevitable that murderer and victim must be previously known to each other. Franks might have been irritating and objectionable but would have been unlikely to drive a total stranger to such violence.

So, she decided as she showered and dressed, the aim of her interviews at Porthkennan would be to trace any connection between Greg and the other passengers and to reconstruct in detail all that had happened after the birdwatchers had joined the boat. It seemed simple and straightforward. She drank hot coffee too quickly, then drove fast down the harbour road, past the Jessie Ellen, still moored at the quay. She felt vigorous and refreshed.

Before leaving Heanor, she collected Berry from his parents’ home. He had been relieved from surveillance duty outside Myrtle Cottage in the early hours of the morning by another detective, and Claire had arranged to pick him up. Many of the terraced houses in the street where he lived had been bought by hopeful immigrants from the north and turned into guest houses. In some cases the hopes had obviously not been realised; even on this bank holiday weekend hand-painted signs advertised that there were still vacancies.

Through large bay windows Claire saw tired landladies preparing for breakfast, setting ketchup bottles on plastic tablecloths, pouring sugar into plastic bowls.

In the car Berry told her about Rose’s walk to the cottage on the shore.

“What was she after?” Claire asked.

“Him, I think,” Berry said. “ Rosco.”

“They seem an unlikely sort of pair,” she said, unconvinced.

“All the same,” he said, “I think that’s how it is.”

When they arrived at Myrtle Cottage, Claire decided to interview Rose first. Whatever the reason for her midnight wander down the valley, it was a sign of panic. She thought the woman would be ready to talk.

For their interview they used the dining room, which was at the back of the house, cool and shady, a little gloomy. The light was filtered through the overgrown shrubs, planted too close to the window in the garden beyond. The furniture was dark and heavy and looked as if it had been inherited from an elderly relation. The room was rarely used.

“Mrs. Pengelly,” Claire Bingham began.

“Miss,” Rose interrupted. “ I’ve used my maiden name since my divorce.”

“Ah, yes.” Claire looked at a piece of paper in a brown file. “When was that?”

“Twelve years ago,” Rose said.