In effect, they had all given him the same answer – that it was difficult to pick out any one person from the sea of faces that passed in front of them. Least helpful of all had been the guard in charge of the train on which the murder had occurred. His name was Cyril Dear, a short, skinny, animated individual in his fifties who was highly offended even to be approached by the detective. As he talked to him, his hands were gesticulating madly as if he were trying without success to juggle seven invisible balls in the air.

'I saw nobody getting into the last carriage, Sergeant,' he said. 'I've got better things to do than to take note of where every passenger sits. Do you know what being a guard means?'

'Yes,' said Leeming. 'It means that you have responsibilities.'

'Many responsibilities.'

'One of which is to ensure the safety of your passengers.'

'And that's what I do, Sergeant.'

'It must entail being especially vigilant.'

'I am especially vigilant,' retorted Dear, hands now juggling five additional balls. 'I defy any man to say that I'm not. I see things that most people would never notice in a hundred years.'

'Yet you are still quite unable to tell me who occupied the last carriage yesterday morning. Think back, sir,' encouraged Leeming, stifling a monstrous yawn. 'When the train was filling up, what did you observe?'

'What I observe every day – paying passengers.'

'Did none of them stand out?'

'Not that I recall.'

'This is very serious,' said Leeming, as people surged past him to walk down the platform. 'A man who travelled on this same train only twenty-four hours ago was murdered in cold blood then flung over the Sankey Viaduct.'

'I know that.'

'We simply must catch his killer.'

'Well, don't look at me, Sergeant,' said Dear, as if he had just been accused of the crime. 'I have an unblemished record of service on this line. I worked on it when it was the Liverpool and Manchester Railway, all of twenty-two years ago. Cyril Dear's name is a byword for loyalty. Speak to anyone. They'll tell you.'