The door was opened by a woman in her late forties or early fifties. She was about Jasmine’s height and build, but Jasmine had the impression the woman could pick her up and throw her like a wrestler if she needed to. She wore her hair tied back behind a headband; her face bore not a mote of make-up, yet it was undeniably attractive in a distinguished, unashamedly mature kind of way. It was the kind of face that Jasmine imagined people meant when they said ‘handsome’ of a woman. It was also, she inferred, not a face to be argued with.

‘Can I help you, dear?’ the woman asked. ‘Do you know where you are, or are you lost?’

It was an oddly worded question, even for out here in the back of the Northumberland beyond, almost like a code. Jasmine picked up a conflict of nuance in her tone and expression. The woman came across as guarded but not wanting to sound guarded; protective without wishing to thus betray that there was something here worth protecting.

‘I’m not lost, no. My name is Jasmine Sharp. I’m a private investigator.’

Jasmine felt like she was delivering a line, except that she tended to feel less self-conscious on stage, where you weren’t trying to kid anybody that it was true – least of all yourself.

The woman’s face dismissed any conflict of nuance, all defences mustered and the drawbridge pulled up in response to these last two words.

‘What do you want here?’ she asked.

‘There’s someone I need to speak to, and this is the address I’ve been given.’

The woman said nothing. There was no overt hostility, but Jasmine could feel suspicion trained on her like arrows through cross-slits.

‘His name is Tron Ingrams,’ she explained.

At this, the defences came down, though only a little. The suspicion remained, but not the defensiveness. Whoever this Tron Ingrams was, it wasn’t him the woman was protecting.

‘What do you want to speak to him about?’

‘I’m looking into a missing-person case, and I believe he was helpful when my colleague made an earlier inquiry, back in October. I’m hoping he wouldn’t mind answering a few more questions.’

Jasmine had gambled that by making it sound like a rapport had already been established with this Ingrams character, she would get the green light, but the woman still looked intractable.

‘Who’s missing?’ she asked. ‘What’s the name?’

‘Glen Fallan,’ Jasmine replied.

The woman shook her head, but it was to register a lack of recognition, not a refusal of help. Despite this, something in her seemed to soften.

‘Why don’t you come inside and wait. Tron’s out the back working at the moment, but he’s due a break. It’s getting on for lunch.’

She opened the door a little wider and stepped to the side.