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now.’
    ‘How old are you, Hannah?’
    ‘Eighteen.’ She answered automatically, too stunned to question Vera’s right to ask.
    A responsible adult then. No need for a minder. Not legally. But all the same, she just looked like a bairn. ‘Is there anyone else you’d like with you? A relative?’
    She looked up. ‘Simon. Please get me Simon.’
    ‘Who’s he, then?’
    ‘Simon Eliot. My boyfriend.’ She paused. Then, despite her sadness and confusion, she corrected herself, taking a small comfort from the idea. ‘My fiancé.’
    Vera felt like smiling. It seemed like they were playing mothers and fathers. Who got married that young any more? But she kept her voice serious. ‘Live local, does he?’
    ‘His parents have the big white house at the other end of the village. You’ll have passed it on the way in. He’s a student in Durham. Home for the Easter holidays.’
    ‘Why don’t you give him a ring? Ask him to come round. Or do you want me to speak to him?’ Vera was thinking the lad’s parents would look after Hannah if there was nobody else. At least until they could contact the father and bring him back from London. Hannah already had her mobile out and was punching out the numbers. At the last minute, as it started ringing, she passed it back to Vera. ‘Do you mind? I can’t talk about it. What would I say?’
    ‘Hello, you.’ A deeper voice than Vera was expecting, warm and sexy. It came to her suddenly that nobody had ever spoken to her like that.
    ‘This is Inspector Vera Stanhope from Northumbria Police. There’s been a sudden death. Hannah’s mother. Hannah asked me to contact you. I wondered if you’d come round. She needs someone with her.’
    ‘I’ll be there.’ The phone went dead. No messing. Vera was glad Hannah hadn’t taken up with a fool.
    ‘He’s on his way,’ she said.
    While they waited for him, Vera made tea. She was desperate for a cup, and the pasty hadn’t done much to stop her hunger. This was a house where there’d be biscuits. Possibly even home-made cake.
    ‘What did your mam do for a living?’ She’d plugged in the kettle and turned back towards Hannah, who was still staring into space. There was no indication in the house, no clues for Vera to pick up, but she thought something arty. The things in the house – the furniture, crockery, pictures – wouldn’t have cost much, but they were put together with flair.
    Hannah looked up very slowly. It was as if the question had taken hours to get through to her brain and she had only just remembered what had been asked. ‘She was a social worker. Fostering and adoption.’
    Vera had to readjust her ideas. She’d never thought much of social workers. Either interfering busybodies who wouldn’t let folk get on with their own lives or ineffective wimps. A social worker had come to visit when her own mother had died, though she’d called herself something different then. Child Welfare Officer, that was it. Hector had charmed her, said of course he’d be fine to look after his daughter, and that had been the last they’d seen of the woman. And even though Hector had been hardly what anyone would call a model father, Vera wasn’t convinced having a social worker involved would have improved things. She was saved the need to answer because there was a brief knock on the front door, then Simon let himself in. He must have his own key . The thought flashed into her mind as she watched the young man take Hannah into his arms. Though it was hardly relevant because Jenny hadn’t been killed at home, it made him seem somehow part of the family and the idea of the couple being engaged seemed less ridiculous.
    He was dark and big and towered over Hannah. Not conventionally good-looking, Vera thought. Slightly overweight, nerdy glasses, impossibly big feet. But there was a charge of attraction between them, even in this moment of the girl’s grief, that took Vera’s breath away and gave her a dark and destructive pang