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of their identities. Gave them the sheet off HOLMES, etcetera etcetera. And of course they hadn’t seen a thing.”
    “Who ever has?” Brad muttered, peering over at the grey brick of 22 Rawlinsons.
    Brian sighed and took a few steps towards the heavy steel gate. Beside it, there was a little metal box with a speaker on it, and a few numbers for a keycode. “Might as well give the old woman a shot. Might get a brew out of her. You’re inputting the info into the system later though, Brad. I’m shit at typing.”
    “Course you are,” Brad said, as Brian pressed the circular metal button to ring the doorbell of 22 Rawlinsons. “Thought you might be.”
    DC Finch sniggered again.
    Brian waited for a response from the microphone and speaker. He wasn’t holding out much hope. And in truth, he’d only come here because it was on the way back to the crime scene, where, hopefully, forensics and the pathologists would have some info for him. Really, he should be in his office typing in banal information about how “nobody saw anything at 20 Rawlinsons; nobody saw anything at 24 Rawlinsons.” Screw that. He might be getting on a bit these days, but the day he found comfort behind a desk inputting information instead of out on the beat solving cases was the day he keeled over and died.
    A crackle from the speaker took Brian by surprise. He was just about to tell the others to try back here again later, not that it’d be worth it.
    Instead, he heard a small voice from the speaker: “Is that you kids again? I told you to stop pressin’ that bell. I‌—‌I told you‌—‌”
    Brian lunged for the microphone button on the metal box. “Mrs. Delforth,” he said. “It’s…‌it’s Detective Inspector Brian McDone. From the Preston police. I’m here with some colleagues about the‌—‌”
    “Is this about them kids messin’ about with my bell? How good of you, officer. How good of you to check on me. ‘Cause they keep on pressin’ it, I tell you. They keep on‌—‌”
    “We…‌we wondered if we could come through and have a word? Just to the door. It will only take a moment. Just to ask a few questions about whether you’ve seen anything strange around here the last few days.”
    Brian heard a whistle from one of his colleagues just behind him. He saw DC Finch pointing through the gates. When Brian looked, he could see a short, grey-haired woman holding a corded phone to her ear, peering through the flowery curtains in her white nighty.
    Brian raised a hand. Held the microphone button down once more. “It’ll only take a few minutes. I promise.”
    Mrs. Delforth held eye contact with Brian. Squinted at him.
    Then, she smiled. “A bit of company would be lovely. Tea or coffee, officers?”

Chapter Seven
    As much as Brian wanted to get to the Avenham Park crime scene and see whether forensics had discovered anything worth his attention, a nice strong cup of tea made by Mrs. Delforth was a pleasant late morning interlude.
    Brian, Brad, DS Carter and DC Finch all sat around Mrs. Delforth’s living room with a cup of tea in hand. The tea tasted good‌—‌just the right strength‌—‌but the white cup in Brian’s hand was chipped and there was a little film of dust around the rim that suggested Mrs. Delforth hadn’t had tea-drinking guests for a very long time.
    In fact, the whole room gave off the impression that she didn’t get many guests. The decor was like something you’d see in the times of World War Two. The carpet was a dark, mouldy shade of green, various bits of it upturned and loose. The chairs that they sat on, all supping their tea, were far too spongy, and a similar shade of sickening green. Around the room, there were various antique items‌—‌old clocks, which looked to have stopped ticking long ago. Various antiques of many shapes and sizes stacked up in the corner of the room. Black and white photographs in dusty frames with faded out pictures of people Brian could barely