Stuart has very thick, dark eyebrows that remind me of Burt’s in Sesame Street, and are a contrast to his white hair. ‘That’s right, he was.’ He glances towards the men by the jukebox: they have now resumed their conversation. ‘He was caught trying to sell drugs to a group of teenagers.’

Clive Wilson was a drug-dealer? That doesn’t sound right.

‘What sort of drugs?’ asks Jack.

‘Pills mainly. Es, I think. I told him I didn’t want him dealing in my pub.’ He’s still cleaning the pint glass and it squeaks as the cloth rubs against it.

‘Did you inform the police?’ I ask.

‘I did. But I couldn’t prove anything. The kids were too scared to come forward. So the police did nothing. Clive didn’t have a criminal record of drug-dealing or any history so they picked him up but had to let him go again.’ He sighs regretfully, and places the glass on the counter. ‘Do you want a drink while you’re here?’

I turn to Jack, who nods. ‘Sure. I’ll have a lager shandy,’ he says.

‘Do you have any elderflower cordial?’ I ask, expecting him to say no.

He looks triumphant as he reaches for the fridge behind him and places a bottle of sparkling elderflower on top of the bar.

I try to pay for the drinks, but Jack won’t let me. He orders a couple of packets of crisps as well, and I open them, my stomach rumbling. ‘Do you know anything else about Clive? Or Deirdre?’ I ask.

‘I’m afraid not. Before that I always thought he was all right,’ says Stuart. ‘He’d come in from time to time, have a drink by himself. I didn’t take him for a drug-dealer, but you just never know what goes on behind closed doors, do you?’ He blows air out of his mouth. It makes a whistling noise. ‘His mother, Deirdre, seemed like a sweet old thing. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. Can’t see why anybody would want her dead.’

Jack sips his pint thoughtfully while I take the opportunity to shove a crisp into my mouth. ‘Do you think it’s weird that a woman killed them?’

Stuart shrugs. ‘Women kill too – although it was particularly violent. A gun. I don’t know.’

‘But it’s quite unusual for a woman to break into someone’s home and shoot two random people, isn’t it?’ he presses.

‘Unless it wasn’t random,’ says Stuart, his eyebrows wriggling up and down as though they have a life of their own. ‘But I’ve never met this Heather Underwood,’ he adds, wiping away non-existent stains on the bar with the same cloth he used to clean his glass. ‘She never came in here, although her husband has a couple of times.’