We knocked on doors and stopped people in the street. After a while we tried a door in desperate need of patching up and painting – a lower corner seemed to have been kicked away. It was opened by a woman shrunken by age. ‘Good morning, madam,’ said Tibbot. ‘We’re from the council.’ He didn’t want any repercussions from these enquiries. ‘We’re asking about a woman named Rachel Burton. She used to live around here. Did you ever know her?’

The woman’s lips twitched as she said the name to herself. ‘Rachel. Yes. Yes.’ I shot a look at Tibbot, keeping my excitement under control. ‘Would you like to come in?’

‘Yes, we would. Thank you very much.’ She shuffled to a draughty front parlour and asked us to sit on a pair of upright wooden chairs that barely took our weight. ‘How did you know her?’ Tibbot asked.

‘Oh. Oh, yes,’ she said, staring at us, before going slowly to the kitchen. ‘I would like some tea,’ she mumbled.

‘How did you meet her?’ Tibbot called through the open doorway, gently pressing her. We waited, listening to the kettle whistle. She didn’t reply until she returned with three cups of weak tea. ‘How did you know Rachel?’

‘This is my husband.’ She touched a framed fading photograph of a man in clothes from the beginning of the century, on the crumb-laden table beside her.

‘Your husband?’

She lifted his photograph. ‘This is him. Lionel.’ Her mouth quivered. ‘The War, you see.’ She meant the first War, the Great War. The carousel of battles had just kept spinning.

‘I’m very sorry to hear that.’ Tibbot waited until she replaced the photograph. ‘And he introduced you to Rachel?’ She looked away and dabbed the corner of her eyes with a handkerchief. ‘Was it him who introduced you to Rachel?’

‘Rachel?’

‘Yes.’

She looked at me and squinted. ‘Are you Rachel?’

‘No,’ I said.

She waited for us to say something more. ‘Do you remember Rachel? Rachel Burton?’ Tibbot asked again.

‘Who?’

‘Rachel Burton?’

She stared blankly at us. Tibbot smiled at her and we stood up. ‘Well, thank you for your time,’ he said.

‘Thank you,’ I repeated unhappily.

‘Are you going?’

‘Yes. I’m afraid we have to go now.’

‘Oh. Well, please come again.’

‘We’ll be sure to,’ I replied.

On our way out, Tibbot slipped a pound note under the cushion on the chair. She would find it later. ‘She shouldn’t live like this,’ he said, as we felt the cold air outside.

‘I know. Awful, isn’t it?’

He rubbed his hands together against the cold. ‘Streets like this, they used to leave their doors open. Everyone’s gran.’

‘I grew up on a street like this.’