“David Grenfell, Paul Major, Steven Hill and you. I’ve only had time to track down and speak to David and Paul on the phone so far, though neither of them was able to tell me very much. Go on.”

“I haven’t seen any of them since I left for London when I was eighteen.”

“You only knew Graham for a year?”

“Yes. He was a new kid in our class the September before he disappeared, so it wasn’t quite a full year even. His family had moved up from London that July or August, the way quite a lot of people were already doing then. This was before the huge influx; that came later in the sixties and the early seventies, the new town expansion. You probably weren’t around then.”

“I certainly wasn’t here.”

“Where, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I grew up in Hawick, border country. Spent most of my early police career with Greater Manchester, and since then I’ve been on the move. I’ve only been here a couple of months. Go on with your story.”

“That explains the accent.” Banks paused to sip beer and smoke again. “I grew up here, a provincial kid. ‘Where my childhood was unspent.’ Graham seemed, I don’t know, sort of cool, exotic, different. He was from London, and that was where it was all happening. When you grow up in the provinces, you feel everything’s passing you by, happening somewhere else, and London was one of those ‘in’ places back then, like San Francisco.”

“What do you mean by ‘cool’?”

Banks scratched the scar beside his right eye. Michelle wondered how he’d got it. “I don’t know. Not much fazed him. He never showed much emotion or reaction, and he seemed sort of worldly-wise beyond his years. Don’t get me wrong, though; Graham had his enthusiasms. He knew a lot about pop music, obscure B-sides and all that. He played guitar quite well. He was crazy about science fiction. And he had a Beatle haircut. My mother wouldn’t let me have one. Short back and sides all the way.”

“But he was cool?”

“Yes. I don’t know how to define the quality, really. How do you?”

“I think I know what you mean. I had a girlfriend like that. She was just like… oh, I don’t know… someone who made you feel awkward, someone you wanted to emulate, perhaps. I’m not sure I can define it any more clearly.”

“No. Just cool, before it was even cool to be cool.”

“His mother said something about bullying.”

“Oh, that was just after he arrived. Mick Slack, the school bully. He had to try it on with everybody. Graham wasn’t much of a fighter, but he didn’t give up, and Slack never went near him again. Neither did anybody else. It was the only time I ever saw him fight.”

“I know it’s hard to remember that far back,” said Michelle, “but did you notice anything different about him toward the end?”

“No. He seemed much the same as always.”

“He went on holiday with you shortly before he disappeared, so his mother told me.”

“Yes. His parents couldn’t go that year, so they let him come with us. It’s good to have someone your own age to hang about with when you’re away for a couple of weeks. It could get awfully boring with just parents and a younger brother.”

Michelle smiled. “Younger sister, too. When did you last see Graham?”

“Just the day before he disappeared. Saturday.”

“What did you do?”

Banks gazed away into the trees before answering. “Do? What we usually did on Saturdays. In the morning we went to the Palace, to the matinee. Flash Gordon or Hopalong Cassidy, a Three Stooges short.”

“And the afternoon?”

“In town. There was an electrical shop on Bridge Street that used to sell records. Long gone now. Three or four of us would sometimes crowd into one of those booths and smoke ourselves silly listening to the latest singles.”

“And that night?”

“Don’t remember. I think I just stayed in watching TV. Saturday nights were good. Juke Box Jury, Doctor Who, Dixon of Dock Green. Then there was The Avengers, but I don’t think it was on that summer. I don’t remember it, anyway.”

“Anything odd about the day at all? About Graham?”

“You know, for the life of me I can’t remember anything unusual. I’m thinking perhaps I didn’t know him very well, after all.”

Michelle was getting the strong impression that Banks did know something, that he was holding back. She didn’t know why, but she was certain that was the case.

“Number twelve?” A young girl carrying two plates wandered into the garden.

Banks glanced at the number the bartender had given him. “Over here,” he said.

She delivered the plates. Michelle gazed at her prawn sandwich, wondering if she’d be able to finish it. Banks tucked into his Yorkshire pudding and sausages for a while, then said, “I used to do Graham’s paper round before him, before the shop changed owners. It used to be Thackeray’s until old man Thackeray got TB and let the business run into the ground. That’s when Bradford bought the shop and built it up again.”

“But you didn’t go back?”

“No. I’d got an after-school job at the mushroom farm down past the allotments. Filthy work, but it paid well, at least for back then.”

“Ever have any trouble on the paper round?”

“No. I was thinking about that on my way here, among other things.”

“No strangers ever invited you inside or anything?”

“There was one bloke who always seemed a bit weird at the time, though he was probably harmless.”

“Oh?” Michelle took out her notebook, prawn sandwich still untouched on the plate in front of her, now arousing the interest of a passing bluebottle.

Banks swatted the fly away. “Better eat it soon,” he said.

“Who was this bloke you were talking about?”

“I can’t remember the number, but it was near the end of Hazel Crescent, before you crossed Wilmer Road. Thing was, he was about the only one ever awake at that time, and I got the impression he hadn’t even gone to bed. He’d open the door in his pajamas and ask me to come in for a smoke or drink or whatever, but I always said no.”

“Why?”

Banks shrugged. “Dunno. Instinct. Something about him. A smell, I don’t know. Sometimes when you’re a kid you’ve got a sort of sixth sense for danger. If you’re lucky, it stays with you. Anyway, I’d already been well trained not to accept sweets from strange men, so I wasn’t going to accept anything else, either.”

“Harry Chatham,” Michelle said.

“What?”

“That’ll be Harry Chatham. Body odor, one of his characteristics.”

“You have done your homework.”

“He came under suspicion at the time, but he was eventually ruled out. You were right to stay away. He did have a history of exposing himself to young boys. Never went further than that, though.”

“They were sure?”

Michelle nodded. “He was on holiday in Great Yarmouth. Didn’t get back until that Sunday night. Plenty of witnesses. Jet Harris gave him the third degree, I should imagine.”

Banks smiled. “Jet Harris. Haven’t heard his name in years. You know, when I was a kid growing up around there, it was always, ‘Better keep your nose clean or Jet Harris will get you and lock you up.’ We were terrified of him, though none of us had ever met him.”

Michelle laughed. “It’s still pretty much the same today,” she said.

“Surely he must be dead by now?”

“Eight years ago. But the legend lingers on.” She picked up her sandwich and took a bite. It was good. She realized she was hungry after all and had soon devoured the first half. “Was there anything else?” Michelle asked.

She noticed Banks hesitate again. He had finished his Yorkshire pudding, and he reached for another cigarette. A temporary postponement. Funny, she’d seen the signs before in criminals she’d interviewed. This man definitely had something on his conscience, and he was debating whether to tell her or not. Michelle sensed that she couldn’t hurry matters by pushing him, so she let him put the cigarette in his mouth and fiddle with his lighter for a few moments. And she waited.