“What color hair?”

“Fair. And cut short, like they have it these days. I must say I preferred it when I was a young lass and all the lads had long hair.”

She got a faraway look in her eye, and Gerry hurried along to avoid a “those were the days” digression. “Tall or short?”

“Medium.”

“Fat or thin?”

“Thin.”

“Clothes?”

“Jeans and T-shirt when it was warm enough. Usually with something written on it. The T-shirt, that is.”

“Can you remember what?”

“No. There were several different ones. Images of the devil or skeletons. That sort of thing.”

“Like heavy metal images?”

“Yes. Like Black Sabbath used to wear.”

“Anything else?”

“Trainers, mostly. White. I don’t know what brand. Little ticks on them. They all look the same to me.”

Nike, Gerry noted. “And when it was cooler?”

“One of those hoodie jackets. The ones that make everyone look like a criminal.”

“What kind of a bicycle did he ride?”

“Now you’re asking me. All I can say is, it wasn’t like those in that Tour de France that came through here a few years ago. It had straight handlebars, for a start, not those bent ones, like goats’ antlers.”

“Do you remember what color it was?”

“Red. Bright red.”

“You’re doing really well, Mrs. Cunningham. How long ago was he here?”

“Margery, please, love. A while ago. I haven’t seen him for two or three weeks now. Maybe longer. Time seems to go by a lot faster these days.”

“Is it unusual for him not to visit for so long?”

“I suppose so. Like I said, he used to come up more often than that.”

“And how long had he been visiting Mr. Stokes?”

“Past year or so. Back and forth.”

“Do you know where he went when he wasn’t here?”

“No idea, love. We never talked beyond saying good morning. He didn’t come and kiss me goodbye. Home to his mum and dad, I suppose, for all I know.”

“Did he have people visiting him?”

“Yes. Odd that, really. When Mr. Stokes was there by himself, you’d never see anyone there from one day to the next. But the lad had quite a few visitors. And he was hardly off that mobile phone of his. I’ve no time for them, myself.”

“What kind of visitors did the boy have?”

“Mostly kids his own age, or older. Some of them seemed a bit seedy. All sorts, really. They never caused any trouble, though. Mostly they didn’t stay long.”

“What did Mr. Stokes have to say about it?”

“Nothing. Not to me, at any rate.” She paused. “Oh, dear. How can I say this without sounding judgmental? I mean, I wouldn’t want to speak ill of the dead, but . . .”

“Go on, Mrs. Cunningham.”