“I was working in a florist’s, and it was half-day closing. I don’t work there anymore.” She was wringing her hands unconsciously. “The shop is called Delphinia’s, and the owner’s name is Florence Herriot. November the seventh is her birthday. She asked if I would go to the pub with her at lunchtime, for a sherry. I had an appointment at the hairdresser’s, so I did not arrive until . . .” She gave a strangled little cough, as if her throat was too tight, and continued, “I arrived at two thirty-five. I had a glass of sherry and stayed for approximately half an hour. I always come home to get father’s lunch, but on early closing day I have my hair set, so I leave a tray for him.”

There was that strange little cough again. She was really tense now; her hands continually smoothed her skirt over her knees, which were pressed tightly together. Tennison said nothing, just waited for her to go on.

Her body went totally rigid and she had to force herself to speak. “I—I went up the path, I had my key out. I’d opened the door a few inches when . . . he called my name. ‘Pauline! Hallo, Pauline!’ I turned round, but I didn’t recognize him. He was smiling, and . . . he walked up the path towards me, and he said, ‘Aren’t you going to invite me in for a cup of tea, Pauline?’ ” She froze, like a rabbit caught in car headlights.

Her mouth was open, but she made no sound. Deliberately, Tennison coughed, and she shook her head as if awakening, then started gabbling. “I said I was sorry, I thought there was some mistake, I didn’t know him. He came very close, pushed me into the hallway, got me by the throat, kept pushing me backwards . . . I was so terrified I couldn’t scream, I was afraid for my father. I tried to defend myself with my handbag, but he grabbed it and hit me with it. The clasp cut my cheek open and broke my front teeth . . .”

After a decent interval, Tennison prompted gently, “And then your father came in?”

“Yes. He was upstairs, I was lying on the floor, and he kept kicking me, then Daddy called out and he ran away. My father is blind, he couldn’t see him, couldn’t be called to identify him . . .” She was going to cry.

“But you were able to pick George Marlow out of the line-up?”

Gilling swallowed, held back her tears. “Oh, yes. He was clever, though; he had a beard when he attacked me, but he shaved it off before the identity parade. I still recognized him. It was his eyes, I will never forget his eyes . . . I know, if it hadn’t been for my father, George Marlow would have killed me.”