In their red, yellow and orange wrappers they looked innocent and festive, recalling the pre-war days when sweets could appear in this sort of profusion, the products of a visit from a favourite relative or a particularly fruitful Christmas stocking. Edgar saw Bob staring hungrily at the hoard, and at the glass jars behind Sam Gee’s head. Only a few mud-stained wrappers ruined the effect. That and the fact that this confectioner’s treasure trove had been found in the grave of two murdered children. ‘Do you sell these sweets here?’ asked Edgar. Sam Gee rubbed his eyes. He was a small man, probably nervous at the best of times, but now, after three visits from the police in as many days, he was almost quivering with terror. ‘Some of them we do,’ he said at last. ‘Haven’t had the Imps for a few months now, and I don’t think I’ve ever stocked Pontefract cakes, but the others, yes.’ ‘What about Brighton rock?’ The stick of rock found under Annie’s body had been liberally stained with her blood.
