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young man who had been slumped against the pillows sat up straight, then slid to the edge of the bed and twisted his thin black ponytail around one finger, waiting to be noticed. Declan introduced himself and Watkins, complimenting the boy on his compact lodgings.
      “Very neat and tidy,” he smiled approvingly to Davey Haskitt, who smiled back. “I’ve just been in another flat that was clean and tidy, too. If you could overlook the body on the floor and the blood, that is.” Declan gauged Davey’s reaction carefully.
      The boy flinched, his smile fading rapidly. “Gotta call work. They’d expected me at 5,” he said quietly, looking down atthe floor.
      Declan nodded, listening as the boy put through the call. It was obvious Davey worked hard to pronounce his H’s to soften his broad accent, dropping his G’s instead.
      “Peggy? It’s me, Davey … yeah, I know, don’t get barkin’. That’s why I’m callin’. Tell the boss I’ll not be in today. My neighbor’s been killed and I’m the one found the body. The police are waitin’ to talk to me.”
      Declan exchanged glances with Watkins at the undisguised pride in Davey Haskitt’s voice as he told his story to his boss.
      “Let’s sit right here and chat a bit,” he told Davey, as the young man handed the phone to the constable to give his boss confirmation. “And then you can tell me everything you know about Miss Wallace.”
      Davey launched into his explanation of meeting Bryn Wallace the day he moved into his flat eighteen months ago after getting his job at the bakery at the Covered Market. “It’s an early start, but that suits me. I like being up to see the sun rise and all that. Usually comes up just as I’m crossing Magdalen Bridge. This year I went to Magdalen Tower for the May Morning sing.”
      Declan nodded. “I’ve never done that myself, but I hear it’s quite the spectacle.”
      “Too right,” Davey said enthusiastically. “It’s not just the singin’, ya know, there’s Morris dancin’ and everythin’.”
      Declan felt the envy emanating from the boy. He intuited that Magdalen was where the boy wished he went to school, instead of working in a bakery down the road. “What’s your job at the bakery?” he asked.
      “In the mornin’ I help make the batters. I taste it all, ya know. With a clean spoon each time,” he assured Declan.
      “Certainly.”
      The boy’s narrow face lit up. “After lunch break I get to work on the fondant.” He described the process of learning to roll out the sticky fondant to fashion elaborate figures and scenes that were used to decorate the occasion cakes that were the bakery’s specialty. “It’s white, ya see, until I add just a pinch of food colorin’ and then I shape or mold it. Sometimes I even paint little details on it.” He sat back, proud of his accomplishment.
      “Sounds very meticulous,” Declan said, wondering if this were the kind of trait a savvy killer needed in order to remember to take the murder weapon away. “I understand you liked to bring Miss Wallace goodies home from the bakery?”
      The boy blushed. “Yeah, ya know, they let us take some here and there that don’t sell. But they’re still fresh. And Bryn was always happy to have them.”
      “I’m sure she was, Davey,” Declan said, wondering just how much of a crush Davey Haskitt had on his neighbor. His cell rang, and he excused himself to take it.
      Watkins took Davey over finding the body, receiving the same explanation Davey had given to the first uniform on the scene. The boy had listened to the same song playing over and over for hours, not getting any sleep before work, when it dawned on him Bryn might have fallen ill. The door had been on the latch, and when he’d seen her body, he’d backed out. His cries had brought Bryn’s neighbor to her door.
      Declan rang off and listened to Davey’s story. There was something off here. “Did you enter the