She phoned the landline number for Jenny’s house in Barnard Bridge. Simon Eliot answered.

‘How’s Hannah?’

‘We didn’t get much sleep,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d call her doctor. Explain. She was talking all night and she needs to rest. Maybe he can give her something to knock her out tonight.’ He paused. ‘She wants to see her mother.’

Not her mother, her mother’s body. Something quite different.

‘That should be fine. I’m tied up, but I’ll arrange for someone to pick you up.’ Vera had already decided she’d send Holly. Maybe Hannah would talk more to someone closer her own age.

‘I’m not sure she wants me there,’ Simon said. ‘I think she’d like to say goodbye on her own.’ Vera caught the pain in his voice.

‘That’s a good thing surely,’ she said. ‘Give you a bit of time to yourself. No point you cracking up too.’ She paused. ‘I’d like to talk to some of Jenny’s friends. Seems there was nobody she was really close to at work, so I’m assuming there must have been people in the village. Your mam didn’t know. Can you help?’

‘Anne Mason,’ he said. ‘She’s a teacher at the primary school up the valley and lives in a barn conversion not far out of the village. They went to the theatre, out for meals. They did the flamenco class together. I think she’s away at the moment. It’s the Easter holidays. She and her husband have a holiday home in Bordeaux and they go there whenever they can. Jenny went with them sometimes.’

‘Don’t suppose you have a mobile number for her?’

‘I don’t, but Hannah might. I’ll check.’ There was silence on the other end of the line. ‘There’s nothing I can do to help her,’ he said at last, a cry from the heart.

‘Nothing anyone can do at the moment, pet.’ And Vera gave him Holly’s name, said she’d be in touch when they had a time for Hannah to go to the mortuary.

Vera had arranged to meet Craig, Jenny’s area manager, for lunch in Kimmerston. He had to be in the town anyway and that was the only window in his day. That was the way he talked: buzzword bingo brought to life. There was a partnership meeting, he’d said on the phone. Inter-agency stuff. That was his working life now, all strategy and politics. He never actually saw a client in his life. Vera thought he sounded bloody pleased about it. I should be like that, all strategy and politics. That’s what the bosses want of me. But, God, think how boring that would be.

He suggested they meet in a wine bar in Front Street. She’d walked past it a few times, but had never been tempted in. She knew exactly how it would be: over-priced and poncy. And full of beautiful people who would stare at her, thinking she was a Big Issue seller who’d wandered in from a night on the pavement. She got there deliberately a little late so that she wouldn’t have to wait on her own for him to arrive, and saw him immediately, a guy in his forties, wearing a suit, reading the Indie. A briefcase on the floor beside him. Vera had never carried a briefcase in her life. The place was almost empty – it was still early for the lunchtime rush – so they wouldn’t be overheard.