They took a table by the window. A middle-aged woman came to take their order. There were five different sorts of coffee on the menu and Maurice seemed a bit flummoxed by that, so Cuthbert ordered cappuccinos for both of them. ‘Mo had a stroke not so long ago,’ he said. ‘Sometimes his speech isn’t what it was. But the four of us had a grand holiday in Italy when we first retired, the galleries and that, and I know what he likes.’ Spoiling Ashworth’s preconceptions of two elderly yokels who’d never left the Tyne valley.

‘Anything to eat?’ The owner was pleasant and, from her voice, Ashworth judged she’d come from no further south than York.

They went for a selection of mixed fancies. The woman served them, then disappeared into the kitchen, and Ashworth could gently bring them back to the subject of Jenny Lister.

‘You must have known her since she first moved in?’ He directed his questions to both men. Maurice didn’t seem to mind having Cuthbert speak for him, but Cuthbert turned back to his friend and let him answer.

‘Aye, the lass was still a baby. My Hilda used to help out, babysitting. We never had bairns ourselves and she was glad to do it.’

‘You got on, then?’

‘Oh, they were lovely neighbours. Jenny brought my Hilda to visit me in the hospital when I had the stroke. Every evening for a week.’ Maurice bit into a dainty cake with pink icing, licked his stubby brown fingers.

‘I have to ask some personal questions,’ Ashworth said. ‘There’d be things Jenny wouldn’t want spread about the village, and I know you’d respect that. But this is different. This isn’t just tittle-tattle. It might help us find out who killed her.’

They nodded. Very serious, pleased to be useful again.

‘We think she had a boyfriend,’ Ashworth said. ‘But nobody knows who he is. Did you see anyone come to the house?’

Maurice shook his head slowly. ‘Only the lass’s friends. And they were canny too, mind. You read things about young people today, but they always had a word and a bit of a joke. The woman who teaches in that school in Effingham called in sometimes, but I never saw anyone else. Not that I remember.’ He looked up at Ashworth with a crooked smile. ‘Not that my memory’s what it was since the stroke.’

‘Would Hilda know?’

Cuthbert began to chuckle and choked on the last crumbs of his cake. ‘Of course Hilda would know. She’s to the Tyne valley what that spy place in Cheltenham is to the security services.’

‘But not a gossip,’ Maurice stammered. ‘Not really.’

‘Well, she knows more than she lets on.’ Cuthbert was indulgent. ‘That’s certainly true.’