When she finally reached home, she hurried up the drive and fumbled for her key, eager to hide her shame and wash off the stink of her attacker. She needed three attempts to get the key in the lock. When the door opened, she staggered into the hall. Her mother came waddling out of the living room to greet her but her welcoming smile vanished when she saw how dishevelled Ruth was. Miriam Stein’s questions came out in a breathless stream.

‘What’s happened, Ruth?’ she asked, appalled at what she saw. ‘Where have you been? Why is your coat torn? Who damaged your hat? Why have you come back on your own? Where’s your father? Why hasn’t be brought you home? Is he all right? How did you get here? Can’t you speak? Is there something wrong with you? Why don’t you answer me? Tell me, Ruth — what’s going on?’

It was all too much for her daughter. Faced with the well-meant interrogation, she fainted on the spot.

By the time the detectives had driven to Jermyn Street, the fire brigade had the blaze under control and had prevented it from spreading to adjacent buildings. A sizeable crowd had gathered on the opposite pavement, watching the flames finally succumbing and hissing in protest. Acrid smoke filled the night air, causing some onlookers to cough or put their hands to their eyes. Pulsing heat was still coming from the shop. There was little sympathy for the owner. He had a German name. That was enough.

Harvey Marmion spoke to the officer in charge of the operation. Sergeant Joe Keedy, meanwhile, talked to the three policemen on duty to see if they’d managed to collect any witness statements. Keedy was a tall, wiry, good-looking man in his thirties with his hat set at a rakish angle. Though he earned less than the inspector, he spent much more on his clothing and appearance. Marmion was a family man. Keedy was a bachelor.

‘What does he say?’ asked Keedy when the inspector came across to him. ‘Can anything be salvaged?’