‘No, but I’d guess because he bored her to death. I mean, he seemed a really nice man. But earnest. You know the sort. As if he’s saving the planet single-handed. He had a go at me because I chucked a plastic bottle into the bin in his office instead of taking it away to recycle.’

‘She didn’t tell him she’d fallen for someone else?’

‘He said he had the impression there was something new going on in her life,’ Holly said. ‘I pressed him, but he couldn’t be more specific. He didn’t know if it was a new lover or a new project.’

‘So if Lister was involved with Morgan, we have no proof either way,’ Ashworth said. ‘So we keep it as a possibility, but don’t get hung up on it. In the end, it doesn’t matter if Morgan killed Lister because she was meddling in his new life with Freya or because he’d been screwing her. Courts don’t really care about motive. We have to show he was at the Willows that morning. We need evidence that he put a string round Jenny Lister’s neck and strangled her. Why doesn’t have to come into it.’

But I want to know why, Vera thought, as she waited for the other actions to be assigned. I do care about motive. I’m a nosy bitch and it’s what I’m in the job for.

Driving into the Willows, watching the women arriving all around her with their sports bags and their expensive trainers, Vera couldn’t believe that she’d been one of them, a punter snatching a quick fix of fitness between meetings or on her way to work. She wondered if numbers were still down, if any of the women had demanded a refund of their membership fee. It seemed a bit quiet for this time on a weekday. She walked through the lobby and down the stairs to the health club. Using her membership card she swiped her way through the turnstile. Almost invisible, she thought, even without her bag and towel. Another middle-aged woman with delusions that swimming a few lengths would make her healthier, more beautiful. If the staff were shown her description, even a photo, she doubted if anyone would remember she’d been there.

Ryan Taylor was sorting out a crisis with an exploding coffee machine. There was a pool of brown liquid dribbling from the machine onto one end of the tiled kitchen floor. Chefs and waitresses were walking it through the room. The place was hot. There were steaming pans on the gas hobs and someone was screaming at a young woman in whites: ‘Are you cremating that piece of meat? What do you think this is? Some cheap fast-food outlet.’