Mrs. Bartlett grasped her daughter’s wool-covered hand in her own. Lisa snatched it back. Gerry became aware of the loud ticking of the mantelpiece clock, its works exposed under a glass dome. She took out her photo of Samir. “Did you ever see this boy around the neighborhood? Anywhere?”

“Is he the one . . . you know . . .”

“That’s him,” said Gerry. “He was called Samir. He came here all the way from Syria, by himself.”

“Where were his mum and dad?”

“They stayed behind. The family couldn’t all afford to go. They were killed in a bomb attack a few weeks ago. He never knew.”

“I suppose he was lucky in a way, then,” said Lisa.

Gerry frowned. “Lucky? He was stabbed to death.”

“I mean he died before he knew his whole family had been killed by a bomb.”

“I suppose so,” Gerry agreed. “When you look at it that way. Did you ever see him at all?”

“No. I think I would remember. We don’t get many Syrians around here.”

“I don’t follow,” said Mrs. Bartlett. “If this is the boy you found in a wheelie bin on the East Side Estate, what could he possibly have been doing near here?”

Gerry took a breath and went on. “We think he may have been killed elsewhere, then dumped on the East Side Estate.”

“And you think . . . the same . . . ?”

“No,” said Gerry. “I’m not saying we think it was the same person who attacked Lisa who killed Samir. They’re very different crimes. There are just too many coincidences, that’s all.” She looked at Lisa again. “The man on the mobility scooter, the one you saw in the park sometimes. His name was Howard Stokes and he died around the same time as Samir. At least we think he did.”

“So you think the two are connected?” Mrs. Bartlett asked.

“We know they are,” said Gerry. “We just don’t know how or why.”

“And Lisa?”

“We’re talking to a lot of people in this area, people who might have noticed something. Lisa was a victim of crime in the same neighborhood where we think two people later died. It would be a pretty sloppy detective who didn’t follow up on that.”

“I suppose so,” said Mrs. Bartlett. “But I still don’t see how Lisa can help you.”

The door opened, and a gangly teenage boy, whom Gerry assumed to be Jason Bartlett, came in.

His mother immediately jumped to her feet. “Jason. How’s the revision going?”

Jason shrugged. “OK, I guess.” He smiled at Lisa and touched her chin. “How you doing, little sister?”

“Gerroff, Jason,” Lisa complained, moving away from her brother’s touch.

“Now, children . . .” said Mrs. Bartlett.

Jason flopped down in the free armchair. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“I’m glad you’re here,” said Gerry. “You might remember me from before, when—”

“I remember you,” said Jason. “Have you lot caught him yet?”