“Ah, I see,” said Annie. “Problem solved. Good-bye, then.”

They both bade her a perfunctory good-bye and she left. At the end of the drive, she turned right, toward Relton, and parked in lay-by just around the corner from the Armitages’ drive, where she took out her mobile and discovered that there was, indeed, a signal in the area. So Martin Armitage hadn’t been lying about that. What was it, then, that had given her the unmistakable feeling that something was wrong?

Annie sat for a moment in her car trying to figure out the meaning of the tension she had sensed in the room, not just between her and Robin, but between Robin and Martin. Something was going on; Annie only wished she knew what. Neither Robin nor Martin had behaved like a couple who had just heard that the son whose life they feared for was now safe and would soon be home.

When Martin Armitage’s Beemer shot out of the driveway spraying gravel a minute or two later, Annie had an idea. It was rare that she got to think or act spontaneously, as so much police work was governed by procedure, rules and regulations, but Annie was feeling reckless this morning, and the situation called for some initiative on her part.

As far as she knew, Martin Armitage had no idea what make or color car she drove, so he would hardly be suspicious that a purple Astra was following him at a respectable distance.

As Banks drove down the A1 and entered the landscape of bright new shopping centers, electronics warehouses and housing estates that had replaced the old coal mines, pit-wheels and slag heaps of West Yorkshire, he thought about the way the country had changed since Graham’s disappearance.

1965. Winston Churchill’s funeral. The Wilson Era. The end of capital punishment. The Kray trial. Carnaby Street. The Moors Murders. The first U.S. space walk. Help! Mods and Rockers. It was a time of possibility, of hope for the future, the fulcrum of the sixties. Only weeks after Graham disappeared, the sexy, leather-clad Emma Peel debuted in The Avengers, Jeremy Sandford’s documentary-style TV play about a homeless mother and her children, Cathy Come Home, caused a major stir, and The Who were singing about “My Generation.” Soon, young people were taking to the streets to protest against war, famine and anything else they could think of, shouting “Make love, not war,” smoking dope and dropping acid. Everything seemed on the verge of blossoming into some new sort of order, and Graham, who had seemed so forward-looking, so cool in so many ways, should have been there to see it, but he wasn’t.

And what came between then and Blair’s Britain? Mostly Margaret Thatcher, who dismantled the country’s manufacturing base, emasculated the trade unions, and demoralized the workingman, leaving the north, especially, a ghost land of empty factories, thrift shops and decaying council estates, where those growing up had no hope of a job. In their idleness and hopelessness, many turned to crime and vandalism; car theft became commonplace; and the police became the enemy of the people. Today, without doubt, it was a softer, easier, more middle-of-the-road Britain, and a much more American one, with McDonald’s, Pizza Huts and shopping malls springing up all over the place. Most people seemed to have what they wanted, but what they wanted was mostly of a material nature – a new car, a DVD player, a pair of Nike trainers – and people were being mugged, even murdered, for their mobile phones.

But were things so very different back in the mid-sixties? Banks asked himself. Wasn’t consumerism just as rife back then? That Monday evening in August 1965, when the knock came at their door, the Banks family was settling down to watch Coronation Street on their brand-new television set, bought on hire purchase just the previous week. Banks’s father was in work then, at the sheet-metal factory, and if anyone had predicted that he would be made redundant seventeen years later, he’d have laughed in their face.

Coronation Street was one of those rituals every Monday and Wednesday when, tea over, dishes washed and put away, homework and odd jobs done, the family sat down to watch television together. So it was an unexpected disruption when someone knocked at the door. No one ever did that. As far as the Bankses were concerned, everyone on the street – everyone they knew, at any rate – watched Coronation Street and would no more think of interrupting that than… well, Ida Banks was lost for words. Arthur Banks answered the door, prepared to send the commercial traveler and his suitcase of goods packing.

The one thing that entered nobody’s mind when he did this, because it was such a disturbance of the normal routine, was that Joey, Banks’s pet budgie, was out of his cage, having his evening constitutional, and when Arthur Banks opened the front door to admit the two detectives, he left the living room door open, too. Joey seized the moment and flew away. No doubt he thought he was flying to the freedom of the open sky, but Banks knew, even at his young age, that such a pretty colored thing wouldn’t survive a day among the winged predators out there. When they realized what had happened, everyone dashed out in the garden looking to see where he had gone, but there wasn’t a trace. Joey had vanished, never to return.

More of a fuss might have been made over Joey’s escape had the new visitors not become the center of everyone’s awed attention. They were the first plainclothes policemen ever to enter the Banks household, and even young Banks himself forgot about Joey for the time being. Looking back now, it seemed like some sort of ill omen to him, but at the time he hadn’t seen any significance beyond the simple loss of a pet.

Both men wore suits and ties, Banks remembered, but no hats. One of them, the one who did most of the talking, was about the same age as his father, with slicked-back dark hair, a long nose, a general air of benevolence and a twinkle in his eye, the sort of kindly uncle who might slip you half a crown to go to the pictures and wink as he gave it to you. The other one was younger and more nondescript. Banks couldn’t remember much about him at all except that he had ginger hair, freckles and sticking-out ears. Banks couldn’t remember their names, if he had ever known them.

Banks’s father turned off the television set. Nine-year-old Roy just sat and gawped at the men. Neither detective apologized for disturbing the family. They sat, but didn’t relax, remaining perched on the edges of their chairs as the kindly uncle asked his questions and the other took notes. Banks couldn’t remember the exact wording after so many years, but imagined it went along the following lines.

“You know why we’re here, don’t you?”

“It’s about Graham, isn’t it?”

“Yes. You were a friend of his, right?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”

“No.”

“When did you see him last?”

“Saturday afternoon.”

“Did he say or do anything unusual?”

“No.”

“What did you do?”

“Went shopping in town.”

“What’d you buy?”

“Just some records.”

“What sort of a mood was Graham in?”

“Just ordinary.”

“Was anything bothering him?”

“He was just like normal.”

“Did he ever talk about running away from home?”

“No.”

“Any idea where he might go if he did run away? Did he talk about any particular places?”

“No. But he was from London. I mean, his parents brought him up from London last year.”

“We know that. We were just wondering if there was anywhere else he talked about.”

“I don’t think so.”

“What about secret hiding places?” The detective winked. “I know all lads have secret places.”

“No.” Banks was unwilling to tell them about the big tree in the park – holly, he thought it was – with prickly leaves and branches right down to the ground. If you made your way through them, you ended up hidden inside, between the thick leaves and the trunk, like being in a teepee. He knew Graham was missing and it was important, but he wasn’t going to give away the gang’s secrets. He would look in the tree himself later and make sure Graham wasn’t there.