‘Anyway, last night was one of those nights. I made it two-thirds through the bottle of Glenfiddich I bought myself for an early birthday present, and before I knew it I had dialled her number. Helen would never admit this to me or anybody, but her heart’s still in Belport. She likes to keep abreast of what’s happening on the island, and we got to talking about the one thing around here worth talking about. As it turns out, she has a friend of a friend who works as one of those forensics. The ones who dust for prints and collect DNA. The way she tells it, there was blood all over the inside of that ferry terminal.’

Abby said nothing.

‘Splattered all the way up the rafters, apparently,’ he said, with a short, impressed nod. ‘What do you think about that?’

‘I think I should go and see about Bernie’s vomit,’ Abby said.

‘Ah, you’re no fun today.’

‘It’s like you always say: if you’ve got time for leaning you’ve got time for cleaning.’

With a shake of the head, he picked up the garbage bags and dragged them outside towards the hopper. On his way out the door, he passed a tall brunette who was on her way in. She was dressed in shades of grey, with hair that fell straight to the shoulders. Her hands dangled slackly by her side like a gunslinger’s.

She was naturally pretty. She wore no make-up but her skin was clear and smooth. Her eyes were deep and thoughtful, but there was something sad about them. Abby was strangely captivated by her.

It might have been that she was a stranger, which was unusual for this time of year. She didn’t look like a cop, but then again, neither did Bobbi. Her clothes looked too expensive to belong to a journalist, but of the two, that’s what Abby would have put her money on.

‘Can I help you find something?’ Abby asked.

The woman flinched, looked up as if snapping out of a trance, and frowned.

‘Cigarettes,’ she said.

‘No worries,’ Abby slid open the cigarette cupboard below her register. ‘What’s your brand? We have hand-rolled, menthols, cigars – we might even have some cloves in the back of the display if you’re feeling Gothy.’

The woman didn’t smile. She seemed unaware that Abby had even attempted a joke. It made her think of Lori.

‘I’ll just take a pack of Starling Blues.’

‘Excellent choice,’ Abby said wryly. ‘I could never afford this brand back when I smoked, but I always aspired to. I quit when I got pregnant. Not that it would have made much difference. I still couldn’t afford them.’

She was rambling. The woman curled her lips – an imitation of a smile. ‘How old’s your child?’