The front doorstep of No 34 Sebastopol Street in Sheffield had recently been polished with Red Cardinal polish so that it shone and shimmered in the bright autumn sun. The rest of the bow-fronted terrace house was equally well maintained, the lace curtains in the windows were sparkling white, paintwork was clean, the glass in the windows sparkled and the brass door knocker gleamed. The house was clearly a source of pride for the occupant.
A gaggle of housewives had gathered across the road, their hair in curlers and a turban, wearing housecoats or faded pinafores, slippers on their feet and most had a fag in the mouth and they gawped and chattered like magpies as Yarrow and Harding parked the Riley and walked up and knocked on the front door.
‘Hang the b***h as well as that murdering ba
