Dad said little after that. I could see he was disappointed that I would not go home with him. He showed Sykes and me into the station canteen, and tried once more. “Sometimes, when you have a good night’s sleep, you see things differently the next day. Everything looks clearer.”

“I’m seeing things very clearly, Dad. Thanks all the same.”

“I’ll leave you to order some supper then.” I felt sad to see him walk away, but then he turned back. “I’ll book your train ticket, and I’ll be in the office until you leave.”

Over egg and chips, tea and bread and butter, I told Sykes about Kevin O’Donnell.

“He was part of the demolition gang. He stayed in the area looking for work after they’d finished the job on the orphanage. The demolition company is in Pontefract. See if they know where he is.” I handed Sykes the man’s photograph. “This was given to me by Josh at the rhubarb farm. Oh and check hotels in Leeds and Wakefield. Did someone book a room and not arrive, or sign in and then not come back?”

“I’ve already checked the hotels. No results.” He dipped a chip in his egg yolk. “The information I gave you about the bank accounts, I’ve no reason to doubt it but I didn’t go through formal channels.”

Of course he didn’t, but Scotland Yard would have access to those formal channels. They could also check the telephone exchanges for overseas calls to Thorpefield. Somebody knew what time to expect Harry Aspinall.

What troubled me most was that CID would authorise a search warrant for Thorpefield Manor. Gertrude and Benjie had put themselves beyond the pale. What concerned me was the sudden fear that the incriminating items in the eaves might turn out to bear the fingerprints of Stephen Walmsley.

“The chips are good,” Sykes said.

“They are.”

“Then what’s up? There’s something else.”

There was, but even from Sykes I held back what Mrs. Dell had told me.

Chapter 48

Chapter Forty-Eight

When Mrs. Sugden knew that Mrs. Shackleton was safe, and that Sykes was there too, she thought it time to take her charges home. They were in the waiting area at police headquarters, a nervous lad called Alec, and Philip Goodchild—who explained that he had returned a laundry van, but insisted that he must see them home on the train.

Mrs. Sugden had taken a liking to Philip. He was both a man and a boy, a funny combination but it suited him, as did his tufty hair.

“Are you sure you want to come back with us, Philip? You’ve a home to go to.”