And Ashworth realized that he was the one behaving strangely. It was true after all. He was over-reacting. ‘Could you let me have Connie’s mobile number? We didn’t get it from her.’

Now Frank did turn towards him to stare. Ashworth felt uncomfortable under the gaze, almost as if he’d been caught propositioning Connie. Perhaps he should explain that his interest was purely professional, but that would make the situation even more embarrassing. He would be seen to be protesting too much. Frank jotted a number on the corner of a sheet of paper torn from his notebook. ‘The press made her life torture,’ he said. ‘And now the media circus is back again. You can hardly blame her for wanting to escape for a while.’

‘Could you give me the names and numbers of people who might be putting her up,’ Ashworth said. ‘We need her to identify a suspect. If she gets in touch, tell her we’ll be discreet.’

‘Yeah, right.’ Frank obviously had little faith in the discretion of the police. ‘Just like last time, when you threw her to the wolves and then did nothing to protect her.’

For the rest of the day Joe tried calling Connie whenever he had a moment free. Her landline at the cottage and her mobile. Knowing, after the first few attempts, that it was a waste of time, but still giving it a go in a way that was almost superstitious. The mobile was either switched off or the battery had run down. The first few times he left a message. After that he didn’t bother. He didn’t want her to feel cornered by him too. There was no answering service on the landline. He let it ring for ten seconds each time, then replaced the receiver.

After the meeting with Frank, he left Newcastle and drove inland. He thought he needed to stay close to Barnard Bridge while Vera went chasing all round the county following her instincts and her need for perpetual movement. His instinct told him that the answer to both murders was here in the lush green fields of the Tyne valley.

Karen Shaw had been allowed back to her house. Joe found her there with her husband. They welcomed him with a warmth he hadn’t expected. It was as if they saw him as some sort of medium or magician, as if he provided a means of communicating with the boy they’d lost. Or perhaps it was simpler than that. The young detective was a distraction. They’d been blaming themselves and each other for the loss of their son, and now they had someone else to talk to. There was the guilt that always lingers with survivors. He listened to their confessions, knowing there was nothing he could do to make them feel better.