At the bar, Ridley watched his pint of Coke being poured while listening to Jack’s answerphone greeting, then the beep.

“Jack, ask Connie about John Maynard, please. According to him, they had a sexual relationship, maybe as an alternative to cash for work done. That’s it for now. Call me when you get a break.”

The barman and owner, Warren, put Ridley’s pint of Coke down next to the two pints of lime and soda. Warren was an old Londoner who’d moved out to Aylesbury about forty years ago.

“Dolly Rawlins? First murder we’d had round here in donkey’s years, so too right I milked it. The Grange was only, what, a 20-minute walk away. Tourists would come in here first to get the background story on the murderous gunfight between the notorious ‘London Madam’ and the gangland ‘husband-killer.’ Then they’d go for a wander round the location, then they’d come back here for steak and chips, and a souvenir from the murder scene itself. Forty quid all in, excluding drinks.”

“A souvenir from the murd—?”

“Don’t worry, that bit was horse shit. We stuck a piece of old rubble in a food bag. It was like owning a piece of the Great Wall. Or Ayers Rock. Or the Moon. An actual piece of the most depraved whorehouse and bloodiest murder scene this side of the Watford Gap.”

“And where was the rubble actually from?”

“My back garden. Law against that, is there?”

“Not that I can think of, sir, no.” Ridley maneuvered the three pint glasses into a triangle, ready to be picked up. “You’ve got my card. If you remember anything relevant about the train robbery, I’d be grateful if you’d call me.”

“Will do, guv. Will do.”

Warren tapped the breast pocket of his shirt, where Ridley’s card was safely tucked away.

By five o’clock, Jack was back sitting on one of the benches outside Connie’s B&B, listening to Ridley’s voicemail. As he put his phone away, Connie’s Fiat Punto pulled up behind him.

Connie opened the car door, gathered her shopping bags and then took a minute or two to actually get out. She had to swing her legs round first, then wriggle to the edge of the driver’s seat until her feet touched the ground; she had to grab the edges of the car door and heave herself out in a rocking one-two-three motion. Jack was so riveted by whether or not she’d make it to vertical that he forgot to offer to help.

As Connie swayed toward her B&B, Jack joined her.

“Miss Stephens? I’m DC Jack Warr of the Metropolitan Police. May I speak with you about your time at The Grange?”

Connie said nothing. She just handed him her bags and unsteadily led the way indoors.

The hallway to the kitchen ran the depth of the property, which was surprisingly big once inside. Jack couldn’t help but watch Connie’s ample backside sway from side to side as she walked. She still had an intriguing sort of catwalk wiggle and, although several sizes larger than Jack’s personal taste, he could see the appeal.