Josh paused. His eyes widened. “Oh, oh, don’t tell me. Let me guess. You’re investigating the death.”

“I’m curious that’s all.”

He laughed. “A lady detective turns up at what might be the scene of a crime and all she’s interested in is –”

“Writing and illustrating an article, with her own photographs and those of a brilliant local photographer.”

“Rhubarb growers don’t have time to go around murdering people. Mind you, I might make an exception for our Tom.”

“Why?”

“He’s gone to teach agriculture at a college near York.”

“Your parents must be proud?”

“Proud? They’re devastated. He’s betrayed the family. There’s no way I’ll escape now.”

“And do you want to?”

“What do you think? I was hoping you’d take me on as a private detective.”

“I’m here for my article, Josh, photographer’s honour! But you can’t blame me for being curious. I think someone went to the sidings and put the body on the train.”

“Have you seen the sidings?”

“I know what sidings look like.”

“Then you’ll know that there’s a foot difference in height between the sidings and the platform level where the loading’s done. If the killer was a big fellow, eight feet tall and with an identical twin as his accomplice, he’d be in with a chance.”

“But it’s possible.”

“Well, yes, especially if the tall burly murderers aren’t spotted by the clerk as he plods up and down the sidings swinging his paraffin lamp.”

Sometimes it is useful to ask a question to which you know the answer, or part of the answer.

“Just out of curiosity, were there any strangers in the area over the last few weeks?”

“The wrecking men, demolishing the children’s home, there were plenty of them. And now the men who are sinking the pit.”

“Were the demolition men local?”

“They were from a company in Pontefract. They’ve gone now. One stayed about, looking for work, big brawny chap, nickname Giant Jack. He’d worked on a farm in Ireland and had a fancy to be on the land again.”

“And could you give him work?”

“We have enough workers now. I told him to come back at harvest time.” He grinned. “We don’t just grow rhubarb.”

“Do you think he might still be around, looking for work? I’d like some link in my article to the demolition.”

“Doubt it. He’ll have moved on. He wanted to earn extra money to take back to Ireland, to his family.”

“What was his real name?”

“Kevin O’Donnell. I took his photograph, because of his size really. I got him to stand next to my mam.”

“Can you show me?”

He stood. “Come on then, and your secret is safe with me. If there’s a reward for catching this murderer, and you find him, I want my cut.”