‘What do you mean?’ Not wanting to put the girl under pressure, not wanting to give away how important the answer might be, Vera raised herself to her feet and filled the kettle.

‘It was her dream. To be a writer.’

‘You mean stories, and that?’ Still with her back to Hannah, Vera dropped teabags into mugs.

‘No! She said she’d never be any good at fiction. She wanted to do a sort of popular guide to social work. Real cases – the individuals disguised of course – to bring it alive for the reader. So people could understand the strains and the dilemmas that social workers face.’

Vera set a mug of tea in front of Hannah, ferreted in a tin for a couple of biscuits.

‘I think she started writing it,’ Vera said. ‘Researching it anyway. Are you sure she didn’t work on it at home?’

‘Not sure, no. We both led our own lives. She spent quite a lot of time working here on her laptop. Maybe she wanted to start her book in secret. You know what it’s like when you talk about your dreams. People have expectations, put the pressure on. I can imagine her completing it, even waiting before she got a deal with the publisher before telling me. Then it would be: Ta-da, look what I’ve done! And a bottle of fizz to celebrate.’ Hannah looked up, her eyes as feverish as Mattie’s had been. ‘But now it’ll never happen, will it?’

‘Would she have written it straight onto the laptop?’ Because there was no record of any document of that kind saved. The techies had already been through the material on the computer.

‘No, probably not. She was a great one for longhand. She still wrote letters! Real ones, every Christmas, to all her friends and the ageing aunts. It was one of the pieces of advice she gave me about essays at school: Anything tricky, write it out first. There’s a direct

line between the brain and the pen. It never worked for me, but it would have done for her.’

‘So we’re looking for a notebook somewhere.’ Vera was talking to herself more than the girl, but Hannah answered.

‘Yeah! A4, hardback. She bought them from an old-fashioned stationer’s in Hexham. Used them all the time for work. Why? Is it important?’

It could help us find out who killed your mother. But Vera didn’t say that. She just smiled and made more tea.

‘Did Holly ask you about your mam’s handbag?’ They were still sitting at the table, the teapot between them.

‘I don’t think so.’

Of course not. Anger and satisfaction mixed. She’d have an excuse for bollocking Holly when they next met.

‘We haven’t found it yet,’ Vera said, ‘and it could be important. Could you describe it to me? And did she use a briefcase?’