‘I’m from Northumbria Police. Inspector Stanhope.’ Somewhere at the bottom of her bag there was a warrant card, but best not go there. She might find that bit of bacon sandwich discarded from breakfast yesterday.

‘Oh?’ The woman seemed preoccupied but not scared, which was often the response to an unexpected knock from the police. What have I done? Has there been an accident? Has anything happened to my husband, my daughter or my son? Simon’s mother took in the information and seemed almost excited. Perhaps, after all, she had heard of her neighbour’s murder. Though there was no grief, or pretence of grief.

She held out her hand. ‘Veronica Eliot. Are you here about Connie Masters? She changed her name, but I recognized her at once. I knew there’d be charges brought eventually.’

The name was vaguely familiar to Vera, but she refused to be distracted.

‘I’m here about Jenny Lister.’

The woman frowned. Confused? Disappointed? ‘What about Jenny?’

‘So your son didn’t tell you?’ Then, when the woman shook her head. ‘Look, pet, why don’t you let me come in?’

Veronica Eliot moved aside, then let Vera into a large entrance hall. On the wall facing the door was a painting that drew Vera to stare at it. A small water-colour of stone gateposts with a grassy track curving away between them. Vera thought the track was inviting. You’d want to follow it. But in the painting it didn’t seem to be leading anywhere. On the gateposts were carved birds’ heads. Cormorants, maybe. Long necks and long beaks.

‘Where’s that?’ Vera asked.

‘It’s the entrance to Greenhough, my grandfather’s house,’ the woman said.

‘Very grand.’

‘Not any more. There was a fire in the Thirties. The only thing left now is a boathouse. And those gates.’

Veronica deliberately turned her back on the painting. She led Vera down a cool corridor and into the kitchen. Servants’ quarters, Vera thought. So that’s how she thinks of me. Without being asked, the inspector took a seat at the head of the table. ‘Jenny Lister’s dead. Murdered. That’s why your lad’s run off: to take care of Hannah.’

The woman’s face gave nothing away. Another small frown that expressed distaste rather than shock. Slowly she sat down too. The chairs were pale wood to match the table, upholstered in grey. Expensive and classy enough, if you wanted a kitchen that looked like a businessman’s boardroom. The appliances were all at one end, half a mile away, and were stainless-steel and very big.

‘I see,’ Veronica said at last. ‘One of her clients, I suppose. I’ve really never understood why anyone would choose to become a social worker. Think of the people you have to deal with. Look at Connie Masters.’

That name again. Vera made a note to check it out when she finally got to the office. Social workers had never been her favourite people, but now, in the face of this woman’s attitude, she had an urge to defend Jenny Lister.