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had been the Davies’s flat, then moved downstairs to Mr Gardiner’s flat on the first floor. Sparsely furnished, it yielded nothing apart from the fact that its tenant had once worked on the railways and was a staunch supporter of the Conservative Party.
    They returned down the narrow staircase and, watched in silence by Backhouse and Edna, they inspected first the ground-floor living room, which faced the street – utility furniture, a radiogram, a few books and a dejected-looking plant, as well as the framed first aid certificates Backhouse had mentioned and a photograph of him, smiling proudly, in his police uniform – then the bedroom at the back, and finally, the kitchen. There was, as Stratton had predicted, nothing at all to suggest that Muriel Davies had ever been there, alive or otherwise. ‘Now, if you don’t mind,’ said Stratton, turning to Backhouse, ‘we’ll need to see the garden. Is the back door unlocked?’
    Backhouse looked puzzled. ‘Yes, it’s always unlocked, but there’s only the lavatory and the washhouse out there, and there’s no light. I can assure you—’
    ‘I’m sorry,’ said Stratton firmly, ‘but we do have to look.’ He pulled his torch from his overcoat pocket. ‘If you’ll keep the dog inside for the time being …’
    The ‘garden’, which consisted of a yard and a muddy patch of lawn strewn with broken bricks and the corrugated iron remains of an Anderson shelter, was no more than thirty feet by twelve. By the light of the torch, Stratton made out a lopsided washing-line post, the rusty shell of a dustbin, old newspapers, some gnawed bones that looked like chops, a lot of weeds, some dusty-looking bushes and the sooty wall of the goods yard. On the top of it a cat, disturbed by the noise and light, fled with dainty tightropewalker’s steps into the darkness beyond.
    Stratton checked the lavatory and, finding it empty, turned his attention to the fractionally larger washhouse beside it. ‘These are used by all the tenants, are they?’ he asked Backhouse, who was walking up and down the yard, rubbing his back and biting his lip as if in pain.
    ‘That’s right.’
    ‘Bit stiff.’ Stratton tried, and failed, to open the washhouse door.
    ‘It gets jammed,’ said Backhouse. Turning to his wife, who was standing on the threshold of the back door, shoulders hunched and arms crossed against the cold, he said, ‘Fetch a knife, Edna.’
    Edna Backhouse disappeared and returned a moment later with a kitchen knife which she inserted into the lock, and, after wiggling it for a few moments, managed to open the door. Shining his torch in, Stratton saw a room of about five feet square with an old copper covered by a plank of wood on which stood several tins of paint and varnish, presumably left behind by the builders Backhouse had mentioned. Next to it was a square stone sink with a single tap. A row of battered-looking planks of wood was propped up vertically in front of it.

    ‘Those are from the hall,’ said Backhouse. ‘The builders gave them to me for firewood.’
    Stratton nudged the plank a few inches and peered into the copper, but saw nothing except dust. ‘We don’t use the washhouse any more,’ Backhouse explained. ‘Only for storing things and emptying slops … there’s nothing more to see.’
    Stratton pulled back one of the planks standing before the sink and shone his torch into the space behind. The beam illuminated what appeared to be a green-and-white-checked tablecloth, tied round with sash cord. He pulled a couple more of the planks away and saw that it was wrapped round a large parcel. Standing back, he motioned to Mrs Backhouse. ‘Do you know what this is?’ he asked. ‘Is it your tablecloth?’
    Edna Backhouse bent forward and peered at the bundle for a moment. Straightening up, she said, ‘It’s not one of mine. I’ve no idea what’s in it.’
    ‘Well, let’s have it out.’ Aided by Ballard, Stratton pulled the bundle – which was