Forelli, for lack of any better spectacle, watched as the young woman removed a wadded-up blouse from her purse, then tossed it into a trash basket near the curb.

Before the clerk had finished her smoke, an older woman came along. This one, with ragged clothes and matted hair, fished the blouse out of the wire basket and briefly inspected it. Though the material was stained with a large X on the back, the homeless woman stripped off her shirt – right in front of a. police station – no bra – and put the trash-can find on her back.

Mallory listened politely as Mrs Alice White gave her a walking tour of the residence, rambling on about the problems of renovation. ‘The place was a rabbit warren, all broken up in small spaces. Now there’s only a few apartments left at the top of the house.’ The rest of the floors had been restored to the former proportions and appointments of a family home.

‘Where did the murder happen?’

‘If I recall the old floorplan – ’ Alice White pulled open two massive wooden doors and stepped into a formal dining room. ‘It was probably in here.’

Another doorway gave Mallory a view of the adjoining sit-down kitchen. Always go to the kitchen. This was a lesson handed down from Louis Markowitz. Interview subjects were less guarded in that more casual room, for only friends and family gathered there.

Mrs White’s voice was jittery and halting. Police had that nervous effect on civilians, but Mallory suspected another reason.

Planning to hold out on me, Alice?

The woman paused by a large oak table surrounded by eight carved chairs. ‘Yes, I’m sure of it now. This was where Natalie’s apartment used to be. And it was no bigger than this room.’

Though the new owner had been a child when the victim had died, it was obvious that they had known one another. Whenever the conversation turned back to murder, the hanged woman was always Natalie to Mrs White.

Mallory was done with the pleasantries, the getting-to-know-you courtship. She decided upon a style of bludgeoning that would leave only psychic bruises and fingerprints. She raised her face to stare at the chandelier above the table, perhaps the same spot where Natalie Homer had hung for two days in August. ‘You can almost see it, can’t you?’

Gentle Alice White was forced to see it now; the woman’s gaze was riveted to the ceiling fixture, and her mind’s eye showed her a dead body twisting on a rope, rotting in the summer heat. And from now on, she would find Natalie hanging there each time she passed through her dining room.

The detective slowly turned on the freshly wounded civilian.

Can you hear the flies, Alice?

As if this thought had been spoken aloud, the startled woman’s hand drifted up to cover her open mouth.

‘Mrs White? Could I trouble you for a cup of coffee?’ Caffeine was the best truth drug.

‘What? Oh, of course. I’ve got a fresh pot on the stove.’ Alice White could hardly wait to leave this room, this ghost, for the safety of the next room, and the detective followed her.

Mallory sat down at the kitchen table and unfolded a packet of papers, spreading them on a flower-print cloth. ‘I understand you bought this building five years ago.’

‘No, that’s wrong.’ Mrs White poured coffee into a carafe. ‘I didn’t buy it.’ Next, she opened a cupboard of fine china cups and dishes, and this was a bad sign; she was putting out her Sunday best for company.

‘I like coffee mugs, myself,’ said Mallory.

‘Oh, so do I.’ The woman smiled as she pulled two ceramic mugs from hooks on the wall, then set them on the table.

‘Maybe it’s a clerical error.’ Mallory held up a photocopy of the ownership transfer. ‘This says you purchased the building from the estate of Anna Sorenson.’

Alice White, carafe in hand, hovered over the paper and read the pertinent line. ‘No, that’s definitely a mistake.’ She poured their coffee, then sat down across the table. ‘I didn’t buy the house. Anna Sorenson was my grandmother. She willed it to me.’

‘And you visited your grandmother – when you were a little girl.’ Ten seconds crawled by, yet Mallory did nothing to prompt the woman. She sipped her coffee and waited out the silence.

‘Yes.’ Alice White said this as a confession. ‘I was here that summer.’

Their eyes met.

‘The summer Natalie died.’ Her hands wormed around a sugar bowl and she pushed it toward Mallory. ‘The coffee’s too strong, isn’t it? Norwegians make it like soup.’ She reached for a carton of cream. ‘Would you like some – ’

‘No, it’s fine.’

And now it begins, Alice.

‘So, the last time you saw Natalie Homer – ’

‘I was twelve.’ Mrs White made a small production of pouring the cream carton into a pitcher, buying time to hunt for the right words. ‘She was so pretty – like a movie star. That’s what my grandmother said. Natalie gave me her old lipsticks and a pair of high heels.’

‘So you spent some time with her. Did she talk about herself?’

‘No – not much.’ Alice White was so rattled, she stirred her coffee, though she had added neither cream nor sugar. ‘I know her people were from the old country, but not Natalie. My grandmother said her Norwegian wasn’t good.’ The woman forced a bright smile. ‘I don’t speak a word myself. My parents only used it when they didn’t want me to know what they were saying. So when Natalie spoke Norwegian to Gram, I knew I was missing all the good stuff.’

Mallory shuffled her papers, then handed the woman another document. ‘This is a copy of Natalie’s marriage certificate. Her maiden name was an odd one, Qualen. That’s Norwegian?’

‘Never heard of it.’ Alice White stared at the certificate. ‘Maybe it’s a corruption. A lot of foreign names were changed at Ellis Island. I bet the original spelling was Kv instead of Qu. But that still wouldn’t make it a common name.’

‘Good,’ said Mallory. ‘That’ll make it easier to trace her family. It would help if I knew what state they live in. The only next-of-kin we have is a sister in Brooklyn. And she hates cops.’

‘So did my grandmother. She said they were all thieves. They were always ticketing the building for fake violations. Then Gram would give them some cash and – ’ She gave Mallory a weak sorry smile, suddenly remembering that her guest was also police. ‘But that was a long time ago. I’ve never had any problems like – ’

‘Can you remember anything that would tie Natalie to relatives out of state?’

‘I think she came from Racine, Wisconsin. My parents live there, and Gram asked Natalie if she knew them.’

Mallory reached for a folded newspaper at the edge of the table. It was days old. She opened it to the front-page picture of Sparrow being loaded into an ambulance. ‘Can we talk about this now?’

Alice White’s eyes were begging, Please don’t.

‘You knew the police would come.’ Mallory pushed the newspaper across the table. ‘This hanging was a lot like Natalie’s -the hair cut off and packed in her mouth. When you read the paper, you recognized the details. That’s why you were expecting me. I know you saw Natalie’s body. We have a statement from the police officer who saw you in the hall with another kid, a little boy. How old was he?’

‘Six or seven.’ Alice White was mistaking Mallory’s guesswork for absolute certainty. She showed no surprise, only the resignation of a true believer in police omniscience.

‘The two of you saw everything,’ said Mallory, ‘before Officer Parris chased you away.’

The woman nodded. ‘Officer Sticky Fingers. That’s what Gram called him. Or maybe that was the other one.’ She looked up. ‘Sorry – the cops in uniforms – ’

‘They all look alike. I know. So you saw everything, the hair, and the – ’

‘I can still see it.’

‘Who was the little boy? Your brother?’

‘No, I never knew his name. Gram found him wandering in the hall. She took him inside and went through all the stuff in his little suitcase. I remember she found a phone number, but there was nobody home when she called.’