“You told me that you worked for a while at the probation hostel in Bristol,” the inspector said.

“Yes,” Jane said. “Just for a few months while the warden was on maternity leave.”

“Can you tell me when that was?”

There was a pause and a mumbled reply, so the inspector had to repeat the question.

“Four years ago, I think,” Jane said. Her head was spinning, and she was finding it impossible to plan what to say. “Yes, it was in the summer four years ago.”

“And you think you saw Greg Franks there?”

“I thought so,” Jane said. “ I was almost sure. You’d be able to check on his records. There must be a file somewhere, even if he wasn’t convicted.”

“We’ve been in touch with the hostel,” Claire said, “but apparently there was a fire, and all the records were lost. It makes things difficult.”

“Yes,” Jane said. She was staring vacantly in front of her. “ I remember the fire. It was just after I left. I’m sure the wardens have done everything they can to help the police.…” Her voice faded into incoherence.

“It’s a pity they’ve not been more effective,” Claire said. “ Though I suppose it’s not their responsibility. Neither of them was there four years ago. None of the field officers can remember Franks, either, though.”

Then Jane Pym’s voice changed and became sharp and hostile, as if Claire had insulted her personally. “You can’t blame probation officers for not remembering all their clients,” she said. “If you knew how many people we see in a year. Some men only stopped in the hostel for a few days. And we do hundreds of social enquiry reports on people coming up to court. It’s a thankless enough job as it is without all this criticism.”

Claire ignored the anger. “Could one of the men who stayed in the hostel that summer have been Louis Rosco?” she asked. She was beginning to wonder if Jane Pym was being deliberately obstructive, to imagine even some form of collaboration between the woman and the two clients of the probation service. Her caseload must be full of addicts, and the opportunity of dealing in drugs would be enormous.

“Why?” Jane Pym asked suddenly. She was shocked, it seemed, out of her alcoholic blur. “Was he there?”

“So he says. He remembers the fire, so it must have been at the same time as Greg.”

“No,” Jane said slowly. “ I don’t remember. As I’ve told you, I had left before the fire. Perhaps I’d gone before he arrived.”

“Doesn’t that seem rather an odd coincidence? That three of you on the Jessie Ellen might have been together in a probation hostel in Bristol and no one recognised each other?”

“I recognised Greg,” Jane said defensively. “ I thought I knew him.”

“But not Rosco?”