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pokey? he wondered.
    Had there always been this danger that, even by making the slightest move, you ran the risk of knocking over one of the occasional tables on which Mam displayed her precious knick-knacks?
    Mam closed the front door firmly behind the visitors.
    â€˜That May!’ she said, in a voice which was half-disapproval and half-amusement. ‘She’s got a bigger appetite for tragedy than I have for pickled gherkins. Still,’ she continued, ‘I don’t suppose I can blame her – especially when she used to hold the man in charge of the case on her lap.’ She smiled. ‘Imagine it, Charlie, you a chief inspector.’
    â€˜Aye, just imagine it,’ Woodend agreed, balancing the delicate china tea cup – which he knew had been brought out of the display cabinet especially for the occasion – on one of his sturdy knees.
    â€˜Where’s this sergeant of yours?’ his father asked.
    â€˜He’s settlin’ into the hotel at the moment,’ Woodend said, more gruffly than he’d intended.
    â€˜An’ what hotel might that be?’ his mother wondered.
    â€˜The Royal Victoria.’
    â€˜The Royal Victoria! Will you be stayin’ there, an’ all?’
    Well, of course he would be! What did they think? That his sergeant would have a room in the best hotel in town, while he made do with a modest bed and breakfast?
    Yes, that probably was what they would think, he decided, because while they accepted the fact that he was a chief inspector, they still hadn’t quite got used to the idea.
    And, to tell the truth, neither had he.
    â€˜We’re so glad you’re here, Charlie,’ his mother said.
    â€˜I’m pleased to see you, an’ all,’ Woodend replied.
    â€˜That’s not what I meant,’ his mother told him.
    And suddenly the rosy glow of approval in which he’d been basking – albeit uncomfortably – was gone, and in its place was the practical level-headedness of a mam who, despite the trauma of her hysterectomy, had held the family together through the lean times in the thirties.
    â€˜So what did you mean?’ he asked.
    â€˜In some ways, this is a big town, Charlie,’ his mother said. ‘There’s a dozen cinemas and three dance halls now, you know.’
    â€˜No, I didn’t know that,’ Woodend admitted, realizing just how little he actually knew of Whitebridge any more.
    â€˜But in other ways, it’s little more than a village,’ his mother continued.
    He nodded, well aware that what she was saying was true.
    â€˜Lilly Dawson’s death is tearin’ the place apart,’ his mother continued. ‘It’s not just that she died so young – though that’s bad enough – it’s how she died.’
    â€˜I know, Mam,’ Woodend said.
    â€˜An’ she looked such a sweet little thing, didn’t she? So completely trustin’ and innocent?’
    â€˜I don’t think that I’ve actually seen any pictures of her yet,’ Woodend confessed.
    His mother looked shocked. ‘Not seen any pictures of her? But you’re the one who’s in charge of the case.’
    Woodend sighed. He wanted to explain to his mother that however sweet Lilly had been, it had nothing to do with the case – that his task was simply to track down her murderer. He wanted to make her see that it was a job like any other job, and that becoming personally involved with the victim – as he had become in the Pearl Jones case – was a mistake, and one he was unwilling to repeat. But he knew he would be wasting his time, because he would never be able to make her understand.
    â€˜I thought she was just bein’ naive, you see,’ he would explain to Monika Paniatowski, many years later, ‘but what she was actually doin’ was pointin’ me in the direction I’ve been travellin’ in ever since.’
    Mam disappeared into