Her things were still in her room at the Blue Whale, but she could have checked out easily enough over the phone, popped her room key in the mail and had the motel staff post her things.

Then all she’d have needed to do was look for a good real estate agent to sell the holiday house, and she might never have had to come back to the island again. Hell, the agent wouldn’t even need to be good. Anyone could sell real estate in Belport. All they’d need to do was clean the place up a bit, air it out, maybe hire someone local to throw a fresh coat of paint on the walls and—

A bulb flashed in Kate’s mind. Ray said he worked in maintenance. She remembered going back to the holiday house, remembered the three-piece sofa, the furry blue rug that Mia sat on to watch TV, and the fresh white paint that had been slapped against the wall on the far right corner of the living room.

She had run the palm of her hand across the sticky paint and wondered what on earth John had been thinking when he covered up the dozens of names and heights that were written underneath. The answer came suddenly now: John wasn’t thinking anything because he hadn’t been the one holding the brush, no more than he was the one who tripped the house alarm.

Finally, she thought of the maintenance truck she’d spotted parked on the street, and pulled out her phone.

‘Island Care?’ Detective Eckman asked. They were back in the small interview room at Belport Police Station with the cramped view of a concrete laneway. Kate sat opposite Eckman at her coffee-ringed desk. ‘What’s that got to do with any of this?’

‘I looked it up.’ From the company’s outdated website, she’d discovered that Island Care was an off-season caretaking service specialising in general maintenance, storm damage repair and winter surveillance. At the bottom of the page was the contact information for an Ed Gilpin. ‘There aren’t many maintenance companies in this town, and this one is run by somebody with the same surname as the man who murdered David Stemple. It has to be the van that I saw near the house.’

‘I don’t follow.’

Kate told Eckman about finding the obituary locked in the attic of the holiday house, about John’s connection to Annabel Stemple, and about her visits to Marcus Stemple and South Hallston. Eckman listened carefully, leaning on one elbow, chewing a little harder on the end of her pencil each time Kate dropped a new detail. She looked surprised.

You underestimated John Keddie’s widow, Kate thought. Just like everyone always has.