Now, the steak and kidney pudding was beginning to solidify in its own fat on the worktop in the kitchen and the vegetables sat, grey and soggy, in the saucepan.

Thora glanced out of the window and saw the rain battering against the pane. If it was bad down here, she knew only too well what it would be like up in the mountains. The two of them could have been caught in a squall, and the rain might well have turned to snow near the top.

These townies seemed to have no sense of the real danger that lay out there, hundreds of metres above sea level, especially in deep winter, when the weather could turn in an instant.

Thora had lost her husband, a Pennine man born and bred, on a night such as this, many years ago.

She sighed, wondering what to do. She knew they’d been headed for the Pike – she’d overheard the lad mention it at breakfast. He was only a shrimp of a thing, too, going off in his thin sweater.

Thora decided if they weren’t back by eleven, she’d have to call mountain rescue and alert them.

Jazz had brought her computer and her paperwork home halfway through the afternoon. The school room was claustrophobic with three of them in it. Roland was still complaining of the pain of his missing tooth, and despite her best efforts, the man irritated the hell out of her.

When she arrived home, she realised that the scenario was going to be little better, as the plumber was upstairs installing the central heating system. Jazz shut all the doors, plugged in her computer into the one antiquated socket and tried to ignore the crashing and banging and the out of tune whistling from overhead.

Finally, she threw on her Barbour and wellies and went for a stomp across the marshes to clear her head. The sky was darkening and in the dusk the sea formed a grey uninviting eiderdown in front of her, menacingly encroaching on the land. Jazz shivered and retraced her steps home.

By the time she arrived, the plumber had gone and, despite the cold, she felt calmer. Making herself a cup of tea and lighting the fire, she took her case notes out of her briefcase.

She studied the drug sheet for the day of Charlie’s death. Looking closer, she saw a word had been Tippexed out and written over.

10.45 Two paracetamol issued to Rory Millar.

There was a scribbled signature, which was illegible whichever way Jazz looked at it.

Rory Millar, again.

And what had been originally written under the word ‘paracetamol’?

Jazz stared at it, scratched at it, turned the sheet over, but could not decipher the hidden script. She put it in an envelope to send to forensics. They’d have the Tippex off in a few seconds.

A thought came to her: what if ‘aspirin’ had been the original word?

And if Rory Millar had been issued with the brand of pills known to have killed Charlie Cavendish, was it possible that he had been involved? Or that someone wished it to seem as though he was . . .? Or protect him . . .?