I turn the key in the ignition when a rap on my window makes me jump. A long, weathered face appears at the glass. My heart races when I realize it’s Norman. I could just drive away without speaking to him, but that would be mean. I wind my window down and arrange a smile on my face. ‘Hi, Norman.’

‘Oh, it’s you. I wondered who was watching the house.’ He’s wearing a woolly hat, pulled down low on his brow, and a scarf that’s flapping open in the wind, revealing a colourful tattoo on his neck that looks like a bird, although I can’t quite make it out. I wonder if he regrets it, that tattoo, now he’s older.

‘Are you staying there?’ I incline my head towards the house. Although I can’t imagine he’d want to after what happened.

‘No. A week after the … the murders …’ he swallows as though it pains him to say it ‘… I travelled down from Reading and I’ve been staying at Clive’s place in Bristol, but the police have put me up somewhere else tonight. A cheap B-and-B.’

Why would the police do that? My reporter’s antenna twitches. ‘Oh, really? How come?’ I ask, trying to sound casual.

‘They had a warrant. They wouldn’t tell me any more.’ He looks downcast. ‘My brother … Well, I think he might have been involved with drugs.’

This isn’t a surprise after my talk with the landlord of the Funky Raven but I remain silent.

His shoulders sag. ‘But we know it wasn’t some drug lord who killed him, don’t we? It was that woman. That Heather Underwood.’

‘I … Well, I think the police will want to look at everything. Innocent until proven guilty and all that.’

He makes a pft sound with his tongue. I wonder why he’s here at this time of night. I know he was at Margot’s earlier, but what has he been doing since then? Lurking around Tilby or nipping back over to Bristol to put photographs on my car? Does he know where I live? But if he’s responsible for the photographs, then why? Back off, someone had written. Back off from what? From finding out more about Clive?

‘Anyway,’ he says, stepping away from my car so that he’s standing on the narrow pavement. ‘I’d better get back to the B-and-B. Got to sort out funerals, for when the bodies are released.’

‘I’m so sorry.’ I don’t know what else to say.

He hangs his head. ‘Thanks,’ he mutters. Then he lifts his eyes to meet mine. ‘You know she did it, don’t you? Heather Underwood. And it wasn’t because of drugs.’

‘What do you mean?’

He wraps his scarf tighter around his neck. ‘I hope they lock her up and throw away the key, that’s all I’m saying.’