“Margery, please. Well, it’s just that Mr. Stokes was a bit . . . like he wasn’t all there. He was in his own world. I don’t know what you’d call it. We used to say retarded, but I don’t know what the word is now. But it wasn’t his fault.”

“What wasn’t?”

“That he hadn’t had much education, though he did like to read a lot. He was a bit childlike, if you know what I mean. I think maybe that young lad took advantage of him, having his friends round and all.”

Gerry was getting the distinct impression that this was a textbook county lines operation. But what had happened to the operation? Perhaps the young man in question would be back. Or perhaps he had been replaced by Samir. But Margery Cunningham said she hadn’t seen Samir around the neighborhood, and she had no reason to lie.

“Do you remember the boy’s name?” Gerry asked.

“Never knew it.”

“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

“I think so.”

“Can you tell me anything more about him?”

“No, love. I’m sorry.” She rubbed her eyes. “I’m tired,” she said. “Do you know, I’ve been here over twenty-five years, but I shan’t be sad to leave. It used to be a nice estate, the Hollyfield. Good people. Honest. Decent. For the most part. You got the odd bad ’un. You always do, don’t you? But look at it now. Pah. No. Take me to my sheltered flat. That’s what I say. I’ll live out my days quite happily there. The sooner they knock this bloody place to the ground, the better.”

That was the second time today Gerry had heard that sentiment expressed, she realized as she headed back toward the park.