‘Yes, Danny had let him in. Another anonymous swimmer. Who would notice? Simon’s a strong young man, a rower. He could strangle her and make no noise. There would always be a danger that someone would interrupt him, but I suspect Danny was keeping watch. Again, who takes notice of a cleaner? You see the mop, the bucket, even the overalls, but you don’t see the man. And nobody noticed Jenny’s body for more than an hour until I found her, which gave them both time to leave the hotel.’

Vera leaned back in her chair. Had the two young men considered the enormity of what they’d planned? Or had it been an intellectual challenge for them? Like some project set at university?

‘Simon went into the gents’ changing rooms to get dressed, but of course there was a problem. Jenny’s bag was in her locker in the ladies’. And in her bag was her diary, her notes. Probably some reference to her infatuation with Simon. The solution was easy.’ Vera looked up, became again their mentor and teacher. ‘Anyone?’

‘Danny,’ Holly said, jumping in ahead of Ashworth. ‘He had a pass key.’

‘Right! Simon cleared out of the hotel as soon as he could; he was too bright to be seen hanging around there. Not so concerned, you notice, about Danny. He left him to collect the bag and get rid of it, and to bring the notes back to him in Barnard Bridge. But Danny was curious. Who wouldn’t be?’

‘So he checked out what was in the bag before he dumped it?’

‘Of course. And he wasn’t as cool as he pretended either. He didn’t know Barnard Bridge and got lost on his way to the house. He’d thrown the bag into the weeds at Mallow Cottage before Connie saw him.’

Ryan Taylor came up to clear the table. By now all the waiting staff had left and they were the only guests remaining. ‘I’m sorry, pet,’ Vera said. ‘You’ll want to be away home. Just throw us out when you’re ready for us to go.’

‘No rush,’ he said. ‘I’m staying here tonight.’ He flicked a switch and dimmed all the other lights in the room so that they were spotlit by one dusty chandelier. Vera felt like an actress; she’d always enjoyed performing for an audience and looked around her to make sure she had their full attention. Perhaps when she retired she’d go in for amateur dramatics, though she didn’t see there’d be nearly as much fun in the made-up stuff.

The background music had been turned off now. Vera thought this was not so much like being on the stage, but in one corner of a huge film set, one of those big dusty hangars, where fantasies were created with bits of hardboard and scraps of velvet and silk.