“You’ve seen bodies?”

“Don’t sound so surprised, young man. I’m eighty-five years old. When you’ve lived to my age you tend to have seen most things. Especially if you work as a nurse, which I did for many years.” She shook her head. “I know what people say about the estate, and it has its bad elements, true enough, but it wasn’t always like this. The violence. The knives. I must admit, I’m a bit frightened by it all.” She glanced around the room. “It makes me feel differently about where I live. My home . . . it feels violated.” She gave a little shudder.

“When did you move here?”

“When the council first opened the estate, if that’s the right word. July 27th, 1964. They even had a little ceremony, a couple of celebrities cutting the tape. Mike and Bernie Winters, if I remember rightly. Not exactly Morecambe and Wise, but they were very popular in their time. And you can’t believe what a paradise it was for a young married couple like George and me. My George, bless his soul, was a farm laborer, and before we came here we lived in a tiny cottage out Relton way. I used to bicycle to and from the Friarage in Northallerton every day, all seasons, even when I was on nights. There wasn’t much in the way of household comforts in a farm laborer’s cottage. No hot water, an outside toilet, tin tub for a bath, fireplace empty half the time. Even the little paraffin heater we bought didn’t help much with the cold. George didn’t like to use it. He thought it was too dangerous. But we got by. When we got this place, though, we thought we’d died and gone to heaven. Hot water, indoor toilet and bath, underfloor heating, everything spic and span, in working order. I stood out there in the street, just looking, and cried my eyes out. A miracle. At least . . . that’s how it felt then.” She put her hand to her chest. “Listen to me rambling on. You must think I’m gaga. But my heart’s still going like a steam hammer. I always talk too much when I’m nervous or scared.”

“Not at all,” said Banks.

“Of course,” Mrs. Grunwell added, “there’s nothing the council would like more than to get rid of me and put me in a home, out of the way somewhere. George is gone and the children all left years ago. Maybe I should let them. But it’s still my home, don’t you see?”

“I do,” said Banks.

“I’d like to stay here until I can’t possibly manage any longer by myself. I feel sorry for these young people not being able to afford a house of their own, but this house has been my home for over fifty years. Still, you didn’t come to hear me reminiscing and grumbling, did you?”

Banks, who often found that letting witnesses unburden themselves a bit before questioning helped them relax, merely smiled at her. “You told DI Cabbot you put out the rubbish at ten o’clock. Is that right?”