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die?’
    ‘I’m not sure, pet. We’ll need to wait for the results of the post-mortem.’
    ‘But you must know.’
    ‘I think she was strangled.’
    ‘No one would want to kill my mother.’ The girl spoke with certainty, the same certainty with which she’d pronounced her love for the man sitting next to her. ‘It must have been a mistake. Or some psychotic. My mother was a good woman.’
    Leaving the house, Vera thought goodness was a concept she didn’t entirely understand.

 
Chapter Six
     
    There were times when Joe Ashworth thought he was a saint to put up with Vera Stanhope. His wife certainly thought he was mad to tolerate the late nights and the early mornings, the abrupt summons to Vera’s house in the hills at a moment’s notice: ‘Just because she doesn’t have any family responsibilities, no life away from the job, it doesn’t mean you can just drop everything and run away to her.’ Ashworth had tried to make a joke of it, ‘At least you can’t be worried we’re having an affair!’ Because Vera was twenty years older than him, overweight and her skin was rough with eczema. His wife had frowned then and looked at him over the mug of hot chocolate she made each evening to help her sleep. There was no problem about her putting on weight. She’d only just stopped feeding the baby, and the kids kept her active. ‘Maybe you don’t fancy the inspector, but she might have designs on you!’ Ashworth had laughed at that, though the thought had made him uncomfortable. Sometimes his boss had a way of staring at him through half-closed eyes and he wondered what she was thinking. Had she ever had sex? It was hardly something he could ask her, though at times her questions to him were personal, verging on the rude.
    Now she’d left him in charge at the health club and the hotel while she buggered off up the Tyne valley to nose around into the victim’s private life. Not her job at all, and something she could have left to a junior member of the team. His wife occasionally suggested that he should apply for a different post – if not promotion, then a sideways move to give him greater experience. Times like this, Ashworth thought it was a sensible suggestion.
    He saw Lisa, the young lass Vera had co-opted to help her, in the hotel lounge, which was empty finally; all the health-club members had been interviewed and sent away, and a big notice on the hotel door said that the club was closed for business for twenty-four hours ‘Due to Unforeseen Circumstances’. He believed Vera had been thoughtless with Lisa – making the girl peer into the steam room to look at the body, just to save herself a few minutes in the identification, was unprofessional and unkind.
    A young woman with a Polish accent seemed to be in charge of the lounge. She wore a black dress and flat shoes. ‘Can I get you some refreshment?’ He asked Lisa if she’d like a coffee and, when her latte arrived, with small round home-made biscuits on a plate, Lisa sat, bent forward, her hands wrapped round the glass. There was a smudge of foamed milk on her upper lip. She must have seen him looking at it, because she blushed and wiped it away with her napkin.
    The lounge was set out like the drawing room in one of the National Trust houses Joe’s wife had made him go to, before the kids had come along. Polished dark-wood floor with a square carpet in the middle. The carpet was red and woven, almost as hard on the feet as the floor itself, so threadbare that in some places there was no pattern left. Pictures in big gilt frames on the walls. Mostly portraits, men in wigs and women in long dresses. Big leather chesterfields against the walls and chintz-covered chairs grouped around tables with fragile legs. At one end there was a huge fireplace, but without a fire today, and the big radiators were cold too, so there was a chill as soon as you walked in. The room had a background smell of dust.
    Now the remnants of the pensioners’ coffee