‘I phoned his mobile,’ Freya said. ‘I knew he wouldn’t want me wandering round the hotel. He says some of the girls there are a bad influence. So I phoned him.’

‘And?’ Holly was close to shaking the girl now. Vera thought she’d have to learn some patience. Vera was more concerned by the substance of Freya’s answer. What right did this man have to choose her friends?

‘And nothing. He didn’t reply. I waited. He turned up not long after and drove me home. I didn’t have college that day. It was still the Easter break.’ She sounded sulky, like a spoilt child. Vera thought there’d probably been a row in the car on their way back to the coast.

‘Did he explain why he was so late?’ Holly asked.

‘He said it was none of my business. Something to do with work. I thought perhaps Mattie Jones was hassling him again. She’d started phoning from the prison and it drove him crazy.’

No, Vera thought. Not Mattie. She was in hospital having her appendicitis pulled out. Jenny perhaps? Had she seen him, maybe while he was drinking posh coffee in the lounge, waiting for Freya’s class to finish? Had she asked for an interview for her book about the Elias Jones case, told Morgan she would write it anyway? Did he watch her go into the steam room from the viewing gallery, quickly change into his swimming trunks and kill her?

She was so caught up in speculation that she didn’t realize the others were staring at her. She saw herself through their eyes: ageing, ugly, slow. Felt their pity. And then experienced an energizing surge of confidence. I might not be young and bonny, but I’ve got brains, she thought. More brains than the pair of you put together. Another couple of days and we’ll have this sorted.

Early afternoon she was back at the Willows, powered by pride and caffeine and sugar. First she sat in the lounge, drinking more coffee, watching the punters. There were deep armchairs of leather and chintz. Easy to hide away from fellow guests, to carry on a conversation that wouldn’t be overheard. The waiters came to take the orders. No need to stand up or to queue at the bar. This was as anonymous a place as it was possible to imagine.

Her waitress was elderly, a caricature from a bygone age, stooped and almost deaf. Vera bellowed at her.

‘You’ll have seen photos of Jenny Lister, the woman killed here last week. Did she ever come into the lounge to have coffee?’

The waitress shook her head and walked off, but Vera wasn’t even sure she’d heard. Later, though, a lad turned up. Black trousers, white shirt, black waistcoat. An explosion of acne, made worse because he was blushing and nervous.

‘Doreen said you were asking about the woman that died.’