The Couple at No. 9(73)

17 February 1951





THE DAILY MAIL


GIRL, 11, CONVICTED OF MURDER


AN 11-YEAR-OLD girl has been sentenced to life after being found guilty of murder at the Old Bailey.

Jean Burdon remained composed and expressionless as the guilty verdict was read out after a four-hour deliberation by the jury.

Jean Burdon is said to have ‘struck the temple with a blunt object’ of 10-year-old Susan Wallace in an unprovoked attack on 20 June last year. Susan was found dead in a derelict bomb-shattered building by two passing boys.

Mr Justice Downing described her as a dangerous risk to other children and said she will be held in a secure unit for ‘many years’.



Mum walks into the study carrying a mug of tea. ‘Here we are. Red Bush,’ she says, placing it carefully on my desk. ‘I don’t know how you can drink that stuff. The smell turns my stomach.’

‘Look at this,’ I say, and Mum reads the article over my shoulder. ‘Do you think Daphne Hartall could really have been this person?’

‘Well, it’s possible that Sheila Watts was the new identity given to Jean Burdon.’

‘And Gran found out?’

‘She must have done. She mentioned a Susan Wallace too, didn’t she? Do you remember? When she was talking about Jean?’

‘You don’t think she’s just confused because this was a high-profile case and she remembers it from childhood?’ I ask hopefully.

Mum glances at me with concern. ‘I don’t think so,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry.’

I feel tears pressing. ‘The police are going to think Daphne killed Neil Lewisham, aren’t they? And that Gran found out and killed Daphne. They’ve got a motive now.’

Mum pats my shoulder. ‘They’ll need more evidence before they can go down that route, don’t worry,’ she says, but she doesn’t sound convinced.

‘Do you think the private detective is working for Daphne/Sheila/Jean, whatever her name is? That’s if she isn’t the other body, of course.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Well, Davies said his client is looking for some important paperwork and you said he called it evidence. What else could he mean? He’s obviously some kind of thug. And whoever he’s working for sounds desperate.’

‘I’ve told the police everything we know about Glen Davies. Hopefully they’ll talk to him and make him tell them who he’s working for.’

‘Daphne would be old now, though …’ I say doubtfully, rubbing my temple. I can feel a headache coming on.

I think of Gran, not how she is now but how she was when I was growing up. Strong, dependable, kind but private. She obviously had more secrets than Mum and I ever realized. But she was so fiercely loyal, so protective, like a lioness. If Daphne is the other body and she was really Jean Burdon, she could have been dangerous, unhinged. Could Gran have killed her to protect her daughter? I place my hand on my bump, remembering how protective I felt last night after coming back from the hospital.

‘I can’t believe Gran might be a killer,’ I say, thinking aloud. I turn to Mum who has taken a seat on the little cocktail chair in the corner. She doesn’t look as if she’s listening. ‘Mum?’

‘We need to talk … about what you said in the car.’

I turn back to my computer. ‘We have more pressing things to think about.’

‘I don’t want there to be any bad feeling between us. I love you so much.’

‘And I love you too,’ I say. ‘Please, can’t we just forget it? It was a silly argument.’

Mum opens her mouth to say more but we’re interrupted by a knock at the door. We stare at each other. My first thought is that it’s him, Davies.

‘Stay there,’ Mum says, getting up and going to the front door. I lean back in my chair to see her peering through the glass. ‘It’s a young couple,’ she says, sounding puzzled.

‘Not journalists?’ It’s Saturday afternoon. Who else would be calling at this time?

‘They don’t look like journalists.’ She opens the door. I get up and stand beside her, wondering who it is. I’m surprised to see a couple in their late twenties or early thirties standing there. A small, pretty woman with a bun curled like a pineapple on her head and a tall guy with a mass of dark floppy hair and warm brown eyes. He has a friendly, handsome face and a dimple when he smiles. He’s almost as tall as Tom and looks relaxed in a T-shirt and jeans.

‘Hi,’ he says, blushing slightly. ‘I’m Theo Carmichael and this is my wife, Jen.’ She smiles a hello. ‘I know this sounds crazy, and I hope you don’t mind us showing up like this …’

I stare at them, perplexed. Are they neighbours? Jehovah’s Witnesses?

‘… but I found this article on my dad’s desk the other week.’ He hands the article to me and I scan it. It’s about the bodies found in the garden and someone has underlined my name and Gran’s. And at the bottom, in sprawling writing, are the words Find Her.

‘How weird,’ I say, handing the article to Mum. ‘I’m Saffron Cutler and my grandmother is Rose Grey. You said you found this on your father’s desk? What’s his name?’