In the post office, which served also as a shop, a couple of pensioners queued at the counter. He waited until they’d paid their bills and one had sent his letter to a grown-up child in Australia, before chatting to them. Two elderly men who’d lived in the village all their lives.

‘But it’s not the same, you knaa. One time I’d be able to tell you the name of every man, woman and child in the parish. Now half the houses have people I’ve never seen.’

Ashworth felt his confidence return. Ex-collier or ex-farm labourer, folk were all the same. One of the men lived next door to Jenny Lister. He’d already talked to a police officer, he said shyly, when prompted by his friend. They’d called on everyone in the street the day before. A nice enough lad, but you could tell he was in a hurry. They’d invited him in for tea, but he’d not had the time.

‘Well, I have all the time in the world,’ Ashworth said. ‘And I could murder a cup of coffee.’

The men looked at each other and Ashworth sensed a problem. They didn’t want to be inhospitable, but neither felt they could invite him home. Cuthbert lived well out of the village, and Maurice had been banished for the morning so that his wife could clean and bake in peace. She’d be embarrassed if he turned up with a stranger when she wasn’t prepared for visitors. They had adjoining allotments and had planned to spend their time there. Ashworth thought they’d probably had adjoining desks at school. Cuthbert and Maurice. Cuthbert the talker, the leader. He’d made it to farm manager on one of the big estates, still lived in a tied cottage. Maurice was quieter and spoke with a bit of a stutter. His left arm didn’t seem to work so well. He was the Listers’ neighbour.

Again, Cuthbert took charge. They could go to the caff, he said. Nothing on the allotment that couldn’t wait. And Maurice agreed, as he always would. The caff was right by the river. It had a big new sign outside that read ‘Tyne Teashop’. Fancy, old-fashioned lettering, gold on a green background. At the door the men paused. Ashworth could tell they’d never been inside before, that even Cuthbert was a bit nervous.

‘This a new place?’ Ashworth asked. ‘Looks OK. And it’s my treat of course.’

Things were a bit more relaxed then, and Ashworth could understand that too. His mam had always been in charge of the money in their house; she’d watched over the bank statements every month and given his father his spends on Friday teatimes.

‘It used to be a bakery,’ Cuthbert said. ‘Then Mary retired and some lass from the south bought it up. My wife came in once and said never again. Tourists’ prices.’