‘It’s Jim,’ she said. She could see the old man’s stained tartan shawl now, and the Afghan hat. He was lying on his back with his arms crossed, like a Crusader on a tomb, his face all hollows and sharpness, the skin no longer mottled, but the dull white of putty.

‘Froze to death, poor soul,’ said Dr Skipton, straightening up. ‘So far as I can tell, though, it’s quite likely he had TB as well – I gather he had a permanent cough. Thank you, you can take him now,’ he added, to the stretcher-bearers.

‘How did you find him?’ asked Winnie.

‘Someone reported seeing a fire in here last night,’ said the constable. ‘I think he must have tried to light another, but snow kept coming down the chimney. Don’t suppose you know if he had any next of kin?’

‘I don’t even know if his name was really Jim.’ She shifted out of the way as the stretcher came past, one of the bearers stumbling over the bucket, the doctor following. ‘He told me once he’d been gassed in the Great War and he’d had a bad chest ever since.’

She stooped to right the bucket, flashing her torch across the looted treasures within – the fire irons, the cracked front panel of a wireless, a soiled tea-cosy, a bright gilt naval button just like the ones on Elsie’s uniform. Winnie picked it out and ran her thumb across the embossed anchor, and then dropped it back with the other items.

‘Could you let me know if there’s a funeral for him?’ she asked the constable.

Outside, it had begun to snow again. Elsie was still waiting, shifting from foot to foot, her eyes following the passage of the stretcher.

‘Who was it?’

‘Poor old chap who lived on the streets. Half mad, wouldn’t ever let us help him.’

‘There’ll be a few more of those when this is over.’

‘Few more of whom?’

‘People on the streets. Where are they all going to live when they come back?’ Elsie said, her tone suddenly indignant. The doors of the bread van slammed shut and the wheels spun, gripped briefly and then slithered towards the main road, the van’s rear end giving an ungainly shimmy as it turned the corner.

‘You ladies going to a New Year party?’ asked the constable, carefully closing the front door of the house, even as snow began to blow in through the window.

‘No,’ said Elsie, soberly. ‘I’m off to give my fiancé the elbow.’

‘I am,’ said Winnie. ‘Not that I want to. Happy New Year, Tom.’

He flipped a salute. ‘And to you, Win.’

She linked arms with Elsie, and they resumed their walk.

‘I wish you were coming too,’ said Winnie.

‘I don’t. You know what I think about your sister, and anyway, what would I do at a literary party?’

‘What I’m going to do: drink. If there is anything to drink. And Avril’s house is terribly swanky.’