“I didn’t mean to suggest that you’re housebound, Mrs. Grunwell,” said Banks. “I just wanted some idea of how well you know the area. Whether you would have noticed if someone like the victim had been hanging around.”

“I’m sure there are plenty of people on the estate I never see. Some don’t come out until after dark. But I do get out and about. I wouldn’t say I notice anymore or less than some of the younger people in the neighborhood.”

“I can’t imagine this, but I have to ask,” said Banks. “Do you know of anyone who might want to do you harm? Anyone who bears you a grudge, who might have wanted to play such a terrible trick on you? Someone who wanted to scare you, or might even have thought it was some kind of sick joke?”

“Good Lord, no.” Mrs. Grunwell clutched her handkerchief to her chest. “I never even thought of that. No. I’m quite sure there’s no one like that.”

“Do you get along well with your neighbors?”

“Yes, for the most part. They’re very nice. Some of them help me out with little things, now and then. You know, carry my shopping if they see me struggling. Mr. Dunne at number fourteen even takes me to the supermarket on occasion. I don’t like it, but it would be impolite to say no, wouldn’t it?”

“Did you hear anything during the night? A car, or anyone messing about with the bins?”

“We get a few cars going by the end, Malden Road, like, at all hours, so it’s nothing unusual. But Sunday’s usually very quiet. Come to think of it, I do believe I heard a car quite late last night. And before that it sounded as if someone kicked the bin. Kids do that sometimes, and I thought it was either that or next door’s cat, but . . . I don’t know.”

“This sound—might it have been the bin lid closing?”

“It might have been.”

“And you heard a car stop before this?”

“No. I heard a car engine turning over. That was after I’d heard the bin sound. Then it made a terrible noise, like when the gears crunch. I’m just assuming it had stopped first, or why would it have made that awful crunching sound starting up? And before you ask, I was quite wide awake. I like to read in bed, and usually I’m asleep after a chapter or so, depending on the book. Last night I was reading Barbara Cartland. I do so like Barbara Cartland. She usually sends me off to sleep in no time.”

“But not last night?”

“No. For some reason, my eyes just wouldn’t close. Sleep refused to come. It happens sometimes when you’re my age. Old folks don’t need as much sleep, they say. Which is just as well, as we can’t seem to get it.”

“Can you tell me anything else about this car? Did you hear anyone speak, say anything? Did you hear the car door or boot slam?”