“No, we haven’t,” Gerry admitted. “Not yet.”

“So what’s it all about, then?”

“Jason, mind your manners.”

“It’s all right, Mrs. Bartlett.” Gerry showed Jason the photograph of Samir.

“Is that him?” he asked. “You think he’s the one who did it?” He passed the photo back. “He hardly looks old enough.”

“Idiot,” said Lisa. “He’s not the one.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if it was a darkie, mind you,” said Jason.

“Jason!” Mrs. Bartlett reddened. “What have I told you? I won’t have talk like that in my house.”

“It’s our house, Mum. And I was only expressing an opinion. Can’t I do that?”

“Based on what?” Gerry asked. “Your opinion.”

Jason looked flustered and glanced at his sister. “I thought that’s what you said, Lisa. That it was a colored chap.”

“I said no such thing! You’re just trying to put words in my mouth.”

“Lisa,” said Gerry, “do you have any reason to think your attacker was non-white?”

“No. I . . . It was him. Jason. He got me thinking it might have been. He says it’s usually people like that who . . . you know. He got me all confused. But I didn’t really see his hand. I couldn’t tell the color he was. It was too dark.”

“Lisa, are you saying you did see your attacker’s hand, but that you just couldn’t see it clearly? You never told me that before.”

“I . . . I think I did. I just . . . I was too upset and confused.”

“And Jason convinced you that your attacker might have been black?”

“But it was dark,” said Lisa. “How would I have been able to tell?”

“Would it surprise you to know that most sexual predators are white?” Gerry said. She turned to Jason. “Did you give your sister any reason to think her attacker may have been black?”

“I might have suggested it,” said Jason, slouching deeper in the chair. “So what?”

“But you’ve no evidence?”

“How could I have? If you lot can’t find out who did it, how do you expect me to?”

“Jason, that’s enough,” said his mother. “I won’t have you being rude to a guest in our own home.”

“It’s all right, Mrs. Bartlett,” said Gerry. “It’s a version of the butler or the passing tramp. Nobody likes to think it could be someone just like them who’s committed such a crime. Jason’s just angry and frustrated, isn’t that right?”

Jason looked at her with sulky aggression. “If you say so.”

“Did you ever see that boy Samir around here?” she asked him.

“No.”

“Any other boys around Hollyfield Lane?”

“Sometimes. From Cardigan Drive, like. They’d be coming out of that house where that bloke who died lived.”

“Howard Stokes? You saw people coming from his house?”

“Sometimes. Shifty-looking lot.”

“How did you know it was his house?”