At the mention of the violin, Joanna became quite still. A memory rose and bloomed, Ruby playing Christmas carols on the fiddle, with Marianne accompanying on the piano. This year, on Christmas Day, the piano would probably remain under the embroidered cloth, the way it had all year. They might use it rest their drinks on, but without Ruby, her mother wouldn’t bother. It would stand there in silence, like a piece of furniture or a coffin.

“Beautiful?”

“Yes. Beautiful playing. I don’t know what she looks like, of course. She has a beautiful soul too. That’s all that matters, isn’t it?”

“What’s the name of this person?” But it was as if she knew already, before the old woman pursed her lips to make the sound of it.

“Ruby. Ruby Harper.”

Joanna suddenly noticed the headache she’d been ignoring. It felt like she was being stabbed in the temple.

“What it is, detective? Are you alright?”

The possibility that Ruby knew something about what had happened to Gregor entered her detective’s mind and stuck there, flashing in neon. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry. I feel a little unwell. I think I might have a cold coming on.”

“I hope not,” said Mrs. Stefanidis. “That’s the last thing I need.”

“Do you have anyone who can come and keep you company tonight?”

The old lady shook her head. “My husband died, oh, ten years ago now. No children.”

“What about friends, other members of your family?”

“Friends apart from Ruby? I’m afraid not. And no family apart from two nieces who never bother.”

“And this Ruby,” said Joanna, breathing mindfully, “when did you last see her?”

“The day before yesterday. She dropped off some bread and milk.”

“I’ll need an address for her, please, and a phone number if you have one.”

Mrs. Stefanidis reached into her pocket for her phone handset. “I have it all stored on here. Feel free to look.”

“Thank you,” said Jo, standing up to take the phone. Scrolling through the contacts, she found Ruby’s name and there, under the address she knew by heart, was an entirely different number from the one she had for Ruby. Quickly, she added this new number to her contacts and handed Mrs. Stefanidis the handset. She sat down, fiddled with the clipboard she carried, aware that she was supposed to fill in a potential witness contact form with Ruby’s details, reasoning that she could easily do that later, but also knowing she was deceiving herself; that she was making up excuses not to do it.

“I haven’t known her very long, six weeks or so. She saw me struggling with my shopping bag out there, and carried it up for me.” When she said the words out there, Mrs. Stefanidis waggled a hand toward the window.