‘Yes, and Jean Burdon’s case was similar but about ten years before. When she left prison as a young woman she was given a new identity and was never heard of again.’ He addresses Gran: ‘Is that who you mean, Rose? Jean Burdon who killed her friend back in the early 1950s? In east London?’

I feel shaken. I notice Mum is looking at Gran in horror.

Gran nods, folding her hands in her lap.

‘And was she?’ DC Webb asks, sitting forward in her seat. ‘Was Daphne really Jean Burdon?’

‘I . . .’ Gran wrings her hands.

‘Rose,’ says DC Webb, resting her elbows on the table. ‘Did Daphne kill Neil Lewisham?’

Gran purses her lips together. A shadow passes across her face and I wonder what she’s thinking. ‘Who is Neil Lewisham?’ She turns to me. ‘Who are these people?’ She waves her arm in the direction of the police and Mum too. My heart sinks.

‘I think Gran’s had enough,’ I say, reaching for her hand.

‘Rose, can you remember if Daphne killed Neil Lewisham?’ persists DS Barnes. He sounds desperate to keep the interview going but Gran is shaking her head, staring at him blankly but refusing to say anything else.

The detectives exchange resigned glances.

‘We’ll have to pick this up another day,’ says DS Barnes, to me and Mum.

It’s not until we’re leaving the room that I hear DC Webb mutter to her colleague, ‘I think we need to look into the other body being that of Daphne Hartall.’

‘Have you heard of Jean Burdon?’ I ask Mum on the drive home. The tension between us is still almost palpable after our earlier argument.

‘Yes, of course,’ she says crisply. ‘You’d be too young, perhaps. The Jean Burdon case was overshadowed by Mary Bell.’

‘Who did Jean Burdon kill?’

‘Another little girl. Jean was only ten when it happened. And so was the girl she killed. Obviously it was before my time but I remember reading about it.’

I feel sick. ‘God, that’s awful. Imagine finding out that about your lodger.’

Mum nods grimly.

‘Do you think Daphne killed Neil Lewisham because he found out she was Jean Burdon?’ I ask.

Mum looks pained. ‘It’s possible. Especially if he was a journalist. It makes sense.’

‘But then,’ I say, my mouth dry, ‘if Daphne is the other body, who killed her?’

When I arrive back at the cottage Tom is out with Snowy. I go straight to my study and look again at the article Dad sent me from Sheila’s file. It’s a short vox-pop-style piece written by Neil asking whatever became of Jean Burdon and interviews with some of the public about possible sightings.

Then I type Jean Burdon’s name into Google and a number of entries pop up, mostly newspaper reports accompanied by a grainy black-and-white photo of a young chubby-faced girl with a bob. I click on a link.

17 February 1951