“I was just wondering if you knew Mr. Stokes at number twenty-six,” Gerry said.

“I thought that’s who it would be about. I wouldn’t say I knew him, but we’d certainly say good morning if we met in the street. He was a gentleman, was Mr. Stokes, no matter what they say about him in the papers.”

“What have they said about him?”

“You know. The drugs and all. I never saw him take any drugs, and he never did anyone any harm. And where’s the harm, I say, if you choose to spend your days in cloud cuckoo land? Makes a damn sight more sense than spending them in the real world, the way it’s going these days, I can tell you. Or spending your life being a nuisance to others, stabbing people and beating people up. He wasn’t always on the scooter, you know.”

“How long?”

“A year. Less. It was mostly the diabetes, see. He told me about it once. Gets into your feet, it does. I think he lost a couple of toes. But before, like, when he used to walk around on his own, I never once saw him stumble or stagger. And he always said hello. Like I said, a gentleman.”

It didn’t take much to be a gentleman in Margery Cunningham’s world, Gerry thought. “Was he ever suspected of any crimes in the neighborhood?”

“Believe it or not, we didn’t really have much crime, love. Nobody had anything, you see. Not anything worth stealing, at any rate. If thieves wanted good pickings, they’d head off through the park and up the hill.” She laughed, coughed and patted her chest. “But if you’re asking did Mr. Stokes cause any trouble around here, then my answer is no. Not that I know of. He didn’t have any visitors except when that grandson of his was staying.”

“His grandson?”

“Well, I assume that’s who he was. Young lad, anyway. Looked about the right age.”

“Did this grandson visit often?”

“Every week or so. Usually stayed a night or two.”

Gerry brought out her photo of Samir and asked, “Was this him?”

Margery Cunningham shook her head. “No, dearie. The boy I saw wasn’t dark-skinned. I know who this one is, like, and what happened. Saw his picture in the papers. Terrible. But I’ve never seen him around here.”

Disappointed, Gerry put the photograph away. “His name was Samir,” she said, though she didn’t know why she said it. “Can you describe this grandson?”

“He was a typical teenager, pleasant enough, but a bit shifty, if you know what I mean. Always seemed as if he was hiding something or up to something. But a lot of kids are like that, aren’t they, always looking as if they’ve had their hand in the piggy bank? Didn’t go out much. Rode a bike sometimes. Always wearing a backpack.”