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Hanley snatched three hours' sleep in his chair, head tilted back, feet out, snoring loudly. At eight he rose, went to the rest room and washed and shaved. Two startled young police cadets surprised him there at half past eight as they came on duty and went about their business like two dormice in carpet slippers. At nine he was breakfasted and working his way through a mountain of accumulated paperwork. At 9.30 the contractor's foreman at the Mayo Road job came on the line. Hanley considered his request.

'All right,' he said at last, 'you can fence it in and concrete over.'

Twenty minutes later, Professor McCarthy was on the line.

'I've got the limbs straightened out,' he said cheerfully. 'And the skin is soft enough to take the scalpel. We're draining and drying it off now. I'll begin in an hour.'

'When can you give me a report?' asked Hanley.

'Depends what you mean,' came the voice down the line. 'The official report will take two to three days. Unofficially, I should have something just after lunch. Cause of death at least. We've confirmed the ligature round the neck. It was a stocking, as I suspected yesterday.'

The pathologist agreed to come the mile from the Store Street morgue to Hanley's office by 2.30.

The morning was uninterrupted, save by Major Dawkins, who phoned at midday.

'Bit of luck,' he said. 'Found an old friend of mine in the records office at the War House. He gave me priority.'

'Thank you, Major,' said Hanley. 'I'm taking notes; go ahead.'

'There's not too much, but it confirms what we thought yesterday.'

What you thought yesterday, Hanley said to himself. This laborious English courtesy.

'Trooper Herbert James Larkin arrived on the Dublin ferry at Liverpool, October 1940 and volunteered for the Army. Basic training at Catterick Camp, Yorkshire. Transferred to the King's Dragoon Guards. Sent by troopship to join the regiment in Egypt in March 1941. Then we come to the reason he never made corporal.'

'Which was?'

'He was captured. Taken prisoner by the Germans in Rommel's autumn offensive of that year. Spent the rest of the war as a farm worker at a POW camp in Silesia, eastern end of the Third Reich. Liberated by the Russians, October 1944. Repatriated April 1945, just in time for the end of the war in Europe in May.'

'Anything about his marriage?' asked Hanley.

'Certainly,' said Major Dawkins. 'He was married while a serving soldier, so the Army has that on file, too. Married at St Mary Saviour's Catholic Church, Edmonton, North London, 14th of November 1945. Bride, Violet Mary Smith, hotel chambermaid. She was seventeen at the time. As you know, he got an honourable discharge in January 1946 and stayed on in Edmonton working as a storekeeper until 1954. That's when the Army has its last address for him.'

Hanley thanked Dawkins profusely and hung up. Larkin was thirty-four, turning thirty-five, when he married a young girl of seventeen. She would have been a lively twenty-six when they came to live in Mayo Road, and he a perhaps not so lively forty-three. By the time she died in August 1963, she would have been a still-attractive and possibly sexy thirty-five, while he would have been a perhaps very uninteresting and uninterested fifty-two. Yes, that might have caused problems. He waited with impatience for the visit of Professor McCarthy.

The state pathologist was as good as his word and was seated in the chair facing Hanley by 2.30. He took out his pipe and began leisurely to fill it.

'Can't smoke in the lab,' he apologized. 'Anyway, the smoke covers the formaldehyde. You should appreciate it.'

He puffed contentedly.

'Got what you wanted,' said Professor McCarthy easily. 'Murder beyond a doubt. Manual strangulation with the use of a stocking, causing asphyxiation; coupled with shock. The hyoid bone here' — pointing to the area between chin and Adam's apple — 'was fractured in three places. Prior to death, a blow to the head was administered, causing scalp laceration, but not death. Probably enough to stun the victim and permit the strangulation to take place.'

Hanley leaned back. 'Marvellous,' he said. 'Anything on year of death?'

'Ah,' said the professor, reaching for his attach^ case. 'I have a little present for you.' He reached into the case and produced a polythene bag containing what appeared to be a 6-inch by 4-inch fragment of yellowed and faded newspaper.

'The scalp wound must have bled a bit. To prevent a mess on the carpet, our murderer must have wrapped the area of the scalp wound in newspaper. While he built his oubliette behind the false wall, no doubt. By good fortune it's recognizable as a piece of a daily newspaper, with the date still discernible on it.'

Hanley took the polythene bag and through the transparent material, with the aid of his reading spotlight and magnifying glass, studied the newsprint fragment. Then he sat up sharply.

'Of course, this was an old piece of newspaper,' he said.

'Of course it's old,' said McCarthy.