She pulls her dressing-gown further around herself. It’s nearly floor-length and a deep sable velour. She glances at Jack self-consciously. ‘I’ve been here four years, and they moved in not that long ago, so I didn’t know them very well, mostly just to say hello to, although my husband, George, went down the local pub – you know the Funky Raven?’ I shake my head. ‘– with Clive a couple of times. Until he was barred.’

‘Your husband was barred?’

She laughs, then splutters into a handkerchief. ‘No. Clive was barred. I’m not sure why. Some disagreement with the owner. George didn’t really know much about it. And Clive didn’t always live here anyway. He stayed with his mum a couple of times a week but I think he’d got a place Bristol way.’

This is news to me. His brother, Norman, had said Clive had had to move in with their mum because he was having financial troubles. I think of Heather and the fact she was spotted on CCTV in Bristol on the morning of the killings. ‘Do you know where in Bristol?’

She chews her lip. ‘Hmm. I think George mentioned it was in Southville.’

Southville. That was where Heather had been. She must have gone looking for Clive earlier that morning. But why? And if she had, the murders weren’t down to a spur-of-the-moment temporary insanity. They were premeditated. Planned. Jack’s words about Heather being some secret assassin come back to me. No. That’s not real life. Heather is a normal suburban wife and mother. Not some kind of hit-woman. Then why?

I glance across at Jack, but he looks bored, his eyes unfocused, as though he’s thinking about something else. I turn my attention back to Netta.

‘And what did you make of Clive and Deirdre when you saw them?’ I ask.

She chews her lip again, thinking. Then, ‘They seemed nice. Particularly Deirdre. I’d see her walking her cute dog on the beach. She was just an old lady. Honestly, it’s dreadful what happened. This woman who the police say killed them – who was she?’

‘I don’t know,’ I lie. ‘And Clive?’ I’m trying to get the conversation back on track. ‘What was he like?’

‘Gruff. Typical bloke. He chatted to my husband but he seemed a bit awkward around me. Wouldn’t look me in the eye, that kind of thing. George said he was just shy. But he wasn’t young. He was a bit … what’s the word? … rough at the edges. He wore sovereign rings and a gold chain around his neck. He had tattoos. You know the type?’ She pulls a face and I’m shocked at her snobbery. I wonder what her assessment would be of me, sitting on her plush velvet couch with my bleached blonde hair and my second-hand clothes.