‘Can you give me the locker pass key, pet?’

It was as if he was speaking to a child; Vera thought that if Taylor was that patronizing to her, she’d have thumped him. The woman at the desk was older than him, could have been well past forty, but fighting it. Black hair and heavily mascaraed eyes. The name-tag said she was Karen.

‘Is your lad the temporary cleaner?’ Vera asked.

Karen had turned to take a key from a hook on the wall behind her. ‘Why? What’s he got to do with this?’

‘Probably nothing. But I need to chat to him. Is he on duty today?’

Karen put the key on the counter. ‘He does lates. He won’t be in until four.’

‘No rush,’ Vera said easily. ‘I’ll catch up with him then.’

There was a uniformed female officer guarding the changing-room door and at that point Vera sent Taylor away. ‘No point taking up any more of your time. I can manage from here.’ She thought he was going to argue with her, but he caught himself just in time and smiled instead. She watched the light catch the polished heels of his shoes as he disappeared up the stairs.

Vera recognized the officer guarding the door, but couldn’t remember her name. ‘Is it all clear in there?’

‘Aye.’

‘Billy Wainwright taken a look?’

‘For all the good it’ll do, he says.’ The woman smiled fondly and Vera wondered what it was with the man. He wasn’t even much of a looker. He was sympathetic, she supposed. A good listener. Perhaps that was the attraction.

‘I’ve been in the changing room already,’ Vera said. ‘So there’s no real problem with contamination if you let me in.’

The policewoman shrugged. Vera was the boss and, besides, it wasn’t her problem.

Inside the changing room the television high on the wall was still on. Sky News with pictures of the US president and his First Lady visiting somewhere exotic. African children in starched white shirts and women wrapped in brightly coloured batik cloth. The dead woman’s locker was close to the one Vera had used that day. She pulled on a fresh pair of gloves. The lock was stiff and for a moment she wondered if she’d get it open, then she put her shoulder to the door, pushing it until the mechanism caught. The door swung towards her.

Vera looked inside, without touching anything at first. The clothes were neatly folded. A floral skirt, a white shirt, almost as crisp as those worn by the children in the newsreel, a navy cotton sweater. White lacy underwear, as fresh as if it had been newly bought. How did women do that? Vera’s turned grey after the first wash. And she would never have bought anything so glamorous. Under the clothes, a pair of sandals. You could tell they’d be comfortable, the leather soft, but stylish too, with a small heel, the leather plaited and fastened at the ankle. Not the sort of thing Vera would wear in a million years.