“And before that, it was owned by Ester Freeman, who ran it as a brothel.” Bill laughed. “Although if you ask the Neighborhood Watch crowd from back then, they’ll tell you she ran night classes. Load of old shit. She was closed down as soon as the ages of the girls started to dip below legal.”

Laura couldn’t hold her tongue. “Running a brothel isn’t legal, no matter how old the girls are.”

“You know what I mean.” Bill shrugged. “It was the nineties.”

Blaming the decade for the abuse of vulnerable women was clearly a good enough excuse for Bill, so Laura didn’t say anything more on the subject.

“So, Ester was a madam,” he continued. “Kathleen, as I recall, was a forger. Julia was . . . I’m not sure what Julia was. Connie was a prostitute, and Dolly shot her husband. I’ve missed someone, I think. Ester, Kathleen, Connie, Dolly—”

Ridley interrupted. “It’s fine, Bill. As you rightly said, it’s all in the files.”

“Those women didn’t rob that train,” Bill repeated. “It was a smart, savvy bunch of professional men who, I reckon, came from your neck of the woods. I tell you, when you find those train robbers and, more to the point, when you find that missing money, you’ll be a bloody hero, DCI Ridley.”

An additional thought popped into Ridley’s head.

“Anik, I want you to cross-reference all the sex offenders that end up on your list with known patrons of The Grange when it was a brothel. And Jack, use Bill’s files to locate all of the surviving women from The Grange.”

“That’ll be a waste of his time,” Bill interrupted.

Ridley remained polite, calmly explaining that everyone around at the time of the train robbery needed interviewing again, as potential witnesses at least, and so they could be eliminated from the current inquiry. He then swiftly, and very politely, ended Bill’s visit.

“Thank you so much for coming down, Bill. You’ve been very helpful. May we call on you if we have any more questions?”

“Please do, sir, please do.” Bill still exuded enthusiasm. “It’s exciting to think I might finally get to see this case closed.”

Ridley nodded at Jack.

“May I take you to the lift?” Jack asked, rising to his feet and opening the door.

They walked at Bill’s slow pace.

“This bleedin’ paint’s a depressing color,” Bill sneered. “Who chose gray?”

“Someone who doesn’t have to walk this corridor. The top floor’s painted sky blue.”

“Course it is! Sky blue for the suits upstairs, depression gray for the workers down here. You’re not from London, are you? Your accent’s further west.”

“I was brought up in Devon. Although I worked hard to get rid of the accent.” Jack paused. There was something he wanted to ask. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, Bill . . . but did you see Norma when she was ill, toward the end?”

“At least once a week.” Bill looked Jack in the eye. “Cancer’s a shit illness, I won’t lie. But you know, even when the outside didn’t look anything like Norma anymore, she was still there. She had a wicked sense of humor—even at the very end. Cancer kills the body then, eventually, the spirit. So, you pay close attention and when you see them flagging, you remind them how loved they are. That’s your only job, really.”