“But you stayed on after.”

“Yes. There was plenty of work, what with the new town business. Plenty of building. And we like it here. It suits us.”

“Mrs. Marshall,” said Michelle, “I know it’s a long time ago, but can you tell me what sort of things Graham was interested in?”

“Interested in? Oh, the usual boys’ stuff. Football. Cricket. And pop music. He was pop-music crazy. We’ve still got his old guitar upstairs. Practiced chords for hours, he did. Mind you, he read a lot, too. Graham was the sort of lad who could amuse himself. He didn’t always need someone to entertain him. Loved to read about space. You know, science fiction, rockets to Mars, green-eyed monsters. Space-mad, he was.” She looked at the photograph and a faraway expression came over her features. “Just the day before he… well, there was some sort of rocket launch in America, and he was so excited, watching it on telly.”

“Did he have many friends?”

“He made quite a few around here,” Joan answered. She looked at her mother. “Who was there, Mum?”

“Let me remember. There was the Banks lad, of course, they were very close, and David Grenfell and Paul Major. And Steven Hill. Some others, maybe, but those five all lived on the estate, so they’d walk to school together, play cricket or football on the rec, listen to music together, swap records. That sort of thing. Some of their parents still live here. Those who are still left alive, that is.”

“Was Graham a popular boy?”

“I’d say so, yes,” said Mrs. Marshall. “He had an easygoing nature. I can’t see how he could possibly have offended anyone. I’m not saying he was perfect, mind you. He was a normal teenage lad, and he had his fair share of high spirits.”

“Was he a bright lad?”

“He did well at school, didn’t he, Mum?” said Joan.

“Yes. He’d have got to university easily, just like his sister.”

“What did he want to be when he grew up?”

“An astronaut or a pop star, but I’m sure he would have changed his mind about that. He was good at physics and chemistry. He’d probably have made a good teacher.” She paused. “What’s going to happen now, if you don’t mind me asking, Miss Hart? I mean, it was all so long ago. Surely you don’t think you can catch whoever did this? Not after all this time.”

“I don’t know,” said Michelle. “I certainly wouldn’t want to make any rash promises. But when something like this happens, we do our best to go over the ground again and see if we can find something someone missed the first time around. A fresh pair of eyes. It works sometimes. But if I’m to be completely honest with you, I’d have to say we’ll not be giving the case full priority in terms of manpower.”

“Believe me, love, there’s plenty of crime going on around here now without you police spending your time digging up the past as well.” She paused. “It’s just that… well, I think I would like to know, even after all this time. I thought about it a lot the other day, when they came back with the DNA results and said it definitely was our Graham. I thought I’d got resigned that we’d never know, but now, well, I’m not so sure. I mean, if you can just find out what happened to him, and why…” She looked at her husband. “I know he’d like his mind set at ease before… well, I’m sure you know what I mean.”

Michelle packed away her notebook in her briefcase. “Yes, I think I know what you mean,” she said. “And I promise I’ll do my best.”

“There is one question I’d like to ask,” said Mrs. Marshall.

“Yes?”

“Well, you know, the way things happened, we never… I mean, our Graham never had a proper funeral. Do you think we could do that? You know, the bones…”

Michelle thought for a moment. “We might need them for a few days longer,” she said, “for tests and suchlike. But I don’t see why not. Look, I’ll talk to the forensic anthropologist. I’m sure she’ll do her best to release the remains as soon as possible.”

“You are? Really? Oh, thank you so very much, Miss Hart. You don’t know how much it means to us. Do you have any children of your own?”

Michelle felt herself tense up the way she always did when people asked her that. Finally, she got the words out. “No. No, I don’t.”

Mrs. Marshall saw her to the door. “If there’s anything more I can tell you,” she said, “please don’t hesitate to ask.”

“I won’t,” said Michelle. “Thank you.” And she walked down the path in the rain to her car taking deep breaths, shaken, flooded with memories she’d been blocking out, memories of Melissa, and of Ted. Now Graham Marshall was more to her than just a pile of bones on a steel table; he was a bright, easygoing lad with a Beatle haircut who wanted to be an astronaut or a pop star. If only she could figure out where to begin.

Banks met Annie at The Woolpack, a quiet pub in the tiny village of Maltham, about halfway between Gratly and Harksmere. On his way home from Manchester Airport, he had debated whether to call her, and he decided in the end it would be a good idea. He wanted to talk to someone about what he had just learned, and Annie was the only person he had told about the incident with the pervert down by the river. It shocked him to realize that he hadn’t even told his ex-wife, Sandra, though they had been married for over twenty years.

It was drizzling when he pulled up in the market square car park shortly before nine o’clock. Annie’s purple Astra was nowhere in sight. He obeyed the sign and stepped on the disinfectant pad before entering the pub. Though there hadn’t been an outbreak near Maltham itself, incidences of foot-and-mouth disease had occurred in some of the surrounding areas, and as a consequence strict, sometimes unpopular, measures had been brought in by the ministry. Many footpaths had been closed and access to the countryside limited. Also, as local farmers used the village pubs and shops, many of the owners had placed disinfectant mats on their doorsteps.

Maltham itself wasn’t much of a place, though it did have a fine Norman church, and The Woolpack was one of those pubs that did good business mostly by virtue of its being on a busy road between tourist destinations. That meant most of the trade was transient, and during the day, so the few grizzled locals who stood around the bar turned as one and gawped when Banks entered. They did that every time. One of them must have recognized him and said something, because in no time at all they turned back to their pints and ignored him. Banks bought a pint of Black Sheep bitter and a packet of cheese and onion crisps and sat down near the door, as far from the bar as he could get. A couple of the other tables were taken, tourists renting local cottages, by the looks of them. Poor sods, they’d be going out of their minds with no footpaths to walk.

Christ, it was a long way from Greece, Banks thought. Hard to believe that at this time just two nights ago he had been drinking ouzo and nibbling dolmades with Alex in Philippe’s taverna. They had drunk well into the small hours, knowing it was to be their last evening together, telling stories and soaking up the scented warmth of the air and the rhythm of the sea lapping at the quayside beside them. In the morning, Banks had looked for Alex by the harbor to say good-bye as he caught the early ferry to Piraeus, but his friend was nowhere to be seen. Probably nursing his hangover, Banks had thought, aware of the pounding in his own head.

The door opened, the men gawped again – with a bit more interest this time – and Annie entered in tight jeans and a light blue sleeveless top, bag slung over her shoulder. She pecked Banks on the cheek and sat down. Smelling her delicate grapefruit-scented shampoo and soap, and aware of the vague outlines of her nipples under the thin cotton, Banks felt a momentary rush of desire for her, but he held himself in check. That part of their relationship was over; they had moved on to something different. Instead, he went back to the bar and bought her a pint.