“I don’t think—”

“You open them,” she repeated.

She had the same big ears as Samhain and the same slight underbite. These imperfections notwithstanding, there was a prettiness in her soft face and in her dark eyes. Her long, neatly plaited hair was white. She had to be at least sixty, but her smooth skin was that of a much younger woman. There was a strangely otherworldly air about her as she sat, plying her crochet hook beside the rainy window, shut away from the world. Strike wondered whether she could read. He felt safe to open the envelopes that were clearly junk mail, and did so.

“You’ve been sent a seed catalog,” he said, showing her, “and a letter from a furniture shop.”

“I don’t want them,” said the woman beside the window, still talking to Strike’s legs. “You can sit down,” she added.

He sidled carefully between the sofa and the ottoman which, like Strike himself, was far too big for this small room. Having successfully avoided nudging the enormous jigsaw, he took a seat at a respectful distance from the crocheting woman.

“This one,” said Strike, referring to the last letter, “is for Clare Spencer. Do you know her?”

The letter didn’t have a stamp. Judging by the address on the back, the letter was from the ironmonger downstairs.

“Clare’s our social worker,” she said. “You can open it.”

“I don’t think I should do that,” said Strike. “I’ll leave it for Clare. You’re Deborah, is that right?”

“Yes,” she murmured.

Samhain reappeared in the door. He was now barefoot but wearing dry jeans and a fresh sweatshirt with Spider-Man on the front.

“I’m going to put things in the fridge,” he announced, and disap­peared again.

“Samhain does the shopping now,” Deborah said, with a glance at Strike’s shoes. Though timid, she didn’t seem averse to talking to him.

“Deborah, I’m here to ask you about Gwilherm,” Strike said.

“He’s not here.”

“No, I—”

“He died.”

“Yes,” said Strike. “I’m sorry. I’m really here because of a doctor who used to work—”

“Dr. Brenner,” she said at once.

“You remember Dr. Brenner?” said Strike, surprised.

“I didn’t like him,” she said.

“Well, I wanted to ask you about a different doc—”

Samhain reappeared at the sitting room door and said loudly to his mother,

“D’you want a hot chocolate, or not?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Do you want a hot chocolate, or not?” Samhain demanded of Strike.

“Yes please,” Strike said, on the principle that all friendly gestures should be accepted in such situations.

Samhain lumbered out of sight. Pausing in her crocheting, Deborah pointed at something straight ahead of her and said,

“That’s Gwilherm, there.”

Strike looked around. An Egyptian ankh, the symbol of eternal life, had been drawn on the wall behind the old TV. The walls were pale yellow everywhere except behind the ankh, where a patch of dirty green survived. In front of the ankh, on top of the flat-topped television set, was a black object which Strike at first glance took for a vase. Then he spotted the stylized dove on it, realized that it was an urn and understood, finally, what he was being told.

“Ah,” said Strike. “Those are Gwilherm’s ashes, are they?”

“I told Tudor to get the one with the bird, because I like birds.”

One of the budgerigars fluttered suddenly across the cage in a blur of bright green and yellow.

“Who painted that?” asked Strike, pointing at the ankh.

“Gwilherm,” said Deborah, continuing to dextrously ply her crochet hook.

Samhain re-entered the room, holding a tin tray.

“Not on my jigsaw,” his mother warned him, but there was no other free surface.

“Should I—?” offered Strike, gesturing toward the puzzle, but there was no space anywhere on the floor to accommodate it.

“You close it,” Deborah told him, with a hint of reproach, and Strike saw that the jigsaw mat had wings, which could be fastened to protect the puzzle. He did so, and Samhain laid the tray on top. Deborah stuck her crochet hook carefully in the ball of wool and accepted a mug of instant hot chocolate and a Penguin biscuit from her son. Samhain kept the Batman mug for himself. Strike sipped his drink and said, “Very nice,” not entirely dishonestly.

“I make good hot chocolate, don’t I, Deborah?” said Samhain, unwrapping a biscuit.

“Yes,” said Deborah, blowing on the surface of the hot liquid.

“I know this was a long time ago,” Strike began again, “but there was another doctor, who worked with Dr. Brenner—”

“Old Joe Brenner was a dirty old man,” said Samhain Athorn, with a cackle.

Strike looked at him in surprise. Samhain directed his smirk at the closed jigsaw.

“Why was he a dirty old man?” asked the detective.

“My Uncle Tudor told me,” said Samhain. “Dirty old man. Hahahaha. Is this mine?” he asked, picking up the envelope addressed to Clare Spencer.

“No,” said his mother. “That’s Clare’s.”

“Why is it?”

“I think,” said Strike, “it’s from your downstairs neighbor.”

“He’s a bastard,” said Samhain, putting the letter back down. “He made us throw everything away, didn’t he, Deborah?”

“I like it better now,” said Deborah mildly. “It’s good now.”

Strike allowed a moment or two to pass, in case Samhain had more to add, then asked,

“Why did Uncle Tudor say Joseph Brenner was a dirty old man?”

“Tudor knew everything about everyone,” said Deborah placidly.

“Who was Tudor?” Strike asked her.

“Gwilherm’s brother,” said Deborah. “He always knew about people round here.”

“Does he still visit you?” asked Strike, suspecting the answer.

“Passed-away-to-the-other side,” said Deborah, as though it was one long word. “He used to buy our shopping. He took Sammy to play football and to the swimming.”

“I do all the shopping now,” piped up Samhain. “Sometimes I don’t want to do the shopping but if I don’t, I get hungry, and Deborah says, ‘It’s your fault there’s nothing to eat.’ So then I go shopping.”

“Good move,” said Strike.

The three of them drank their hot chocolate.

“Dirty old man, Joe Brenner,” repeated Samhain, more loudly. “Uncle Tudor used to tell me some stories. Old Betty and the one who wouldn’t pay, hahahaha. Dirty old Joe Brenner.”

“I didn’t like him,” said Deborah quietly. “He wanted me to take my pants off.”

“Really?” said Strike.

While this had surely been a question of a medical examination, he felt uncomfortable.

“Yes, to look at me,” said Deborah. “I didn’t want it. Gwilherm wanted it, but I don’t like men I don’t know looking at me.”