“Not their way, no. Direct, not subtle. They had their faults, and there wasn’t much they wouldn’t do if it came right down to it. But if you crossed them, it wasn’t your wife or your kid got hurt, it was you.”

“I understand Ronnie was-”

“Yes, he was. And he liked them young. But not that young.”

“Then-”

“They didn’t hurt kids. It was a man’s world. There was a code. Unwritten. But it was there. And another thing you’ve got to understand, love, is that Reggie and Ronnie were like Robin Hood, Dick Turpin and Billy the Kid all rolled into one, as far as most East Enders were concerned. Even later, you only have to look at their funerals to see that. Fucking royalty. Pardon my French. Folk heroes.”

“And you were the Sheriff of Nottingham?”

Lancaster laughed. “Hardly. I was only a DC, a mere foot soldier. But you get the picture.”

“I think so. And after the day’s battles you’d all adjourn to the local and have a jolly old drink together and talk about football.”

Lancaster laughed. “Something like that. You know, maybe you’re right. Maybe it was a bit of a game. When you nicked someone fair and square, there were no hard feelings. When they put one over on you, you just filed it away till next time. If the courts let them off, then you bought them a pint next time they came in the pub.”

“I think Billy Marshall took the game to Peterborough with him. Ever hear of a bloke called Carlo Fiorino?”

Lancaster’s bushy eyebrows knitted in a frown. “Can’t say as I have, no. But that’s way off my manor. Besides, I’ve already told you, Billy didn’t have the brains to set up an operation. He didn’t have the authority, the command, charisma, call it what you will. Billy Marshall was born to follow orders, not give them, let alone decide what they ought to be. Now that lad of his, he was another matter entirely.”

Michelle pricked up her ears. “Graham? What about him?”

“Young lad with the Beatle cut, right?”

“Sounds like him.”

“If anyone in that family was destined to go far, I’d have said it would’ve been him.”

“What do you mean? Graham was a criminal?”

“No. Well, not apart from a bit of shoplifting, but they all got into that. Me, too, when I was his age. We figured the shops factored the losses into their prices, see, so we were only taking what was rightfully ours anyway. No, it was just that he had brains – though God knows who he got them from – and he was also what they call street smart these days. Never said much, but you could tell he was taking it all in, looking for the main chance.”

“You’re saying that Graham might have been involved with the Krays?”

“Nah. Oh, he might have run an errand or two for them, but they didn’t mess around with twelve-year-old kids. Too much of a liability. Only that he watched and learned. There wasn’t much got by him. Sharp as a tack. Billy used to leave him outside the local, sitting in the street playing marbles with the other kids. It was common enough, then. And some pretty shady customers went in there. Believe me, I know. More than once, the young lad would get half a crown and a watching brief. ‘Keep an eye on that car for me, kid,’ like. Or, ‘If you see a couple of blokes in suits coming this way, stick your head around the door and give me a shout.’ No flies on young Graham Marshall, that’s for sure. I’m just sorry to hear he came to such an early end, though I can’t say as it surprises me that much.”

Dr. Glendenning was delayed in Scarborough, so the postmortem had been put off until late in the afternoon. In the meantime, Banks thought his time would be well spent talking to some of Luke’s teachers, starting with Gavin Barlow, the head teacher of Eastvale Comprehensive.

Despite the threatening sky and earth damp from an earlier shower, Barlow was weeding the garden of his North Eastvale semi, dressed in torn jeans and a dirty old shirt. A collie with a sleek coat jumped up at Banks as he entered through the garden gate, but Barlow soon brought the dog to heel, and it curled up in a corner under the lilac bush and seemed to go to sleep.

“He’s old,” Gavin Barlow said, taking off a glove, wiping his hand on his jeans and offering it. Banks shook and introduced himself.

“Yes, I’ve been expecting a visit,” said Barlow. “Terrible business. Let’s go inside. No, stay, Tristram. Stay!”

Tristram stayed and Banks followed Barlow into the bright, ordered interior of the house. He was clearly interested in antiques, and, by the looks of the gleaming sideboard and drinks cabinet, into restoring them, too. “Can I offer you a beer, or a lager perhaps? Or aren’t you supposed to drink on duty? One never knows, watching Morse and the like on telly.”

Banks smiled. “We’re not supposed to,” he said, not that it had ever stopped him. But it was far too early in the day, and he didn’t have weeding the garden as an excuse. “I’d love a coffee, if you’ve got some.”

“Only instant, I’m afraid.”

“That’s fine.”

“Come on through.”

They went into a small but well-arranged kitchen. Whoever had designed the maple cabinets over the slate-gray countertops had decided on following a pattern of horizontal grain rather than vertical, which made the room seem much more spacious. Banks sat at a breakfast nook with a red-and-white-checked tablecloth while Barlow made the coffee.

“Daddy, who’s this?”

A girl of about sixteen appeared in the doorway, all long blond hair and bare leg. She reminded Banks a bit of Kay Summerville.

“It’s a policeman come to talk about Luke Armitage, Rose. Off you go.”

Rose pouted, then made a theatrical about-turn and sashayed away, wiggling her hips. “Daughters,” said Barlow. “Have you any of your own?”

Banks told him about Tracy.

“Tracy Banks. Of course, now I remember her. I just didn’t put two and two together when I saw your identification. Tracy. Very bright girl. How is she doing?”

“Fine. She’s just finished her second year at Leeds. History.”

“Do give her my best regards when you see her. I can’t say I knew her well… so many pupils and so little time… but I do remember talking to her.”

Gavin Barlow looked a bit like Tony Blair, Banks thought. Definitely more of an Educational Unit manager than an old-style school headmaster, the way his predecessor Mr. Buxton had been. Banks remembered the old fellow who’d been in charge during the Gallows View case, when Banks had first moved up north. Buxton was the last of a dying breed, with his batlike cape and a well-thumbed copy of Cicero on his desk. Gavin Barlow probably thought “Latin” referred to a type of dance music, though maybe that was being a bit unfair. At least the radio station he was tuned in to was playing Thelonious Monk’s “Epistrophy” at eleven o’clock in the morning – a good sign.

“I’m not sure I can tell you very much about Luke,” said Gavin Barlow, bringing over two mugs of instant coffee and sitting opposite Banks. “It’s usually only the persistent troublemakers who come to my attention.”

“And Luke wasn’t a troublemaker?”

“Good heavens, no! You’d hardly know he was there if he didn’t move once in a while.”

“Any trouble at all?”

“Not really trouble. Nothing his form tutor couldn’t deal with.”

“Tell me.”

“Luke didn’t like games, and he once forged a note from his mother excusing him on the grounds of a stomach upset. It was a note the PE teacher remembered seeing a few months earlier, and Luke had traced it out with a new date. Quite a good forgery, really.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing much. Detention, a warning to his mother. Odd, as he wasn’t bad at all.”

“Wasn’t bad at what?”

“Rugby. Luke was a decent wing three-quarters. Fast and slippery. When he could be bothered playing.”

“But he didn’t like games?”

“He had no interest in sports. He’d far rather read, or just sit in a corner and stare out the window. God only knows what was going on in that head of his half the time.”