Banks began to feel a sort of warm glow deep inside. An interesting case. Annie Cabbot. Now this. Maybe there was a God, after all. Maybe his dry season really was coming to an end.

“Do you know,” he said, “it might even be worth voting Conservative, just to make sure the bastard wins his seat.”

Charlie was killed on the nineteenth of March during a big raid over Berlin. Their Flying Fortress got badly shot up by a Messerschmidt. Brad managed to fly the burning airplane back across the Channel and land in an airfield in Sussex, only to find Charlie and two other members of his crew dead. Brad himself escaped with cuts and bruises and after a couple of days’ observation in hospital, he returned to Rowan Woods.

Coming right after Matthew’s return, this news was almost impossible for me to bear. Poor, gentle Charlie, with his poetry and his puppy-dog eyes. Gone.

When Brad got back from Sussex, he came over to the shop with a bottle of bourbon and told me the news in person. Though he had only known Charlie a couple of years, during that time they had become close friends. He tried to explain the kind of bond that is forged between pilot and navigator. I could tell he was devastated by what happened. He blamed himself and felt guilty about his own survival.

Gloria was busy taking care of Matthew and she had told Brad she couldn’t see him again, that it would only upset her and would do them no good. Brad was angry and upset about her rejection, but there was nothing he could do except come to me and pour his heart out.

We sat in the small room above the shop after Mother had gone to bed, drank bourbon and smoked Luckies. We had the Home Service on the wireless and Vivien Leigh was reading poetry by Christina Rossetti and Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Neither of us said very much; there was nothing, really, to say. Charlie was gone, and there was an end to it. Poetry filled our periods of silence.

Not far down the High Street, Gloria – who adored Vivien Leigh, I remembered from our very first meeting – was devoting her time to caring for a man who couldn’t speak, wouldn’t communicate and probably didn’t even know who she was. She was spoon-feeding him, bathing him, for all I knew, with no end in sight. That was what our lives had been reduced to by the war: the essence of misery and hopelessness.

The bottle lay empty; my head spun; the room reeked of cigarette smoke. “‘How do I love thee? Let me count the ways,’” read Vivien Leigh. How Charlie hated such maudlin poetry. I let my head rest on Brad’s shoulder and cried.

Banks went home early on Thursday evening. He didn’t need to be in his office to prepare a list of questions for Vivian Elmsley, and he was far more comfortable at the pine table in his kitchen, a mug of strong tea beside him, Arvo Pärt’s Stabat Mater on the stereo, and the early-evening light, gold as autumn leaves, flooding through the window behind him.

When he had made a list of the essential things he wanted to know, he went through to the living room and tried Brian’s number yet again.

On the fifth ring, someone answered.

“Yeah?”

“Brian?”

“Andy. Who’s calling?”

“His father.”

Pause. “Just a sec.”

Banks heard muffled voices, then a few moments later, Brian came on the phone. “Dad?”

“Where’ve you been? I’ve been trying to get in touch with you all week.”

“Playing holiday resorts in South Wales. We were doing some gigs with the Dancing Pigs. Look, Dad, I told you, we’ve got gigs coming out of our ears. We’re busy. You weren’t interested.”

Banks paused. He didn’t want to blow it this time, but he was damned if he was going to grovel to his own son. “That’s not the point,” he said. “I don’t think it’s out of line for a father to express some concern at his son’s sudden change of plans, do you?”

“You know I’m into the band. You’ve always known I’ve loved music. Dad, it was you who bought me that guitar for my sixteenth birthday. Don’t you remember?”

“Of course I do. All I’m saying is that you have to give it a little time to sink in. It’s a shock, that’s all. We were all expecting you to come out with a good degree and start working at a good firm somewhere. Music’s a great hobby but a risky living.”

“So you keep saying. We’re doing all right. Anyway, did you always do what your parents wanted you to?”

Low blow, Banks thought. Almost never would have been the truth, but he wasn’t ready to admit to that. “Not always,” he said. “Look, I’m not saying you aren’t old enough to make your own decisions. Just think about it, that’s all.”

“I have thought about it. This is what I want to do.”

“Have you spoken to your mother?”

Banks swore he could almost hear the guilt in Brian’s pause. “She’s always out when I call,” he said at last.

Bollocks, Banks thought. “Well, keep trying.”

“I still think it would come better from you.”

“Brian, if it’s your decision, you can take responsibility for it. Believe me, it won’t come any better from me.”

“Yeah, yeah. Fine. All right. I’ll try her again.”

“You do that. Anyway, the main reason I’m calling is that I’ll be down in your neck of the woods tomorrow, so I wondered if we could get together and talk about things. Let me buy you a pint.”

“I don’t know, Dad. We’re really busy right now.”

“You can’t be busy all the time.”

“There’s rehearsals, you know…”

“Half an hour?”

Another pause followed. Banks heard Brian say something to Andrew, but he couldn’t catch what it was. Then Brian came back on again. “Look,” he said, “tomorrow and Saturday we’re playing at a pub in Bethnal Green. If you want to come and listen, we can have that pint during the break.”

Banks got the name of the pub and the time and said he’d do his best.

“It’s all right,” said Brian. “I’ll understand if something else comes up and you can’t make it. Wouldn’t be the first time. One of the joys of being a copper’s son.”

“I’ll be there,” said Banks. “Good-bye.”

It was almost dark by now. He took his cigarettes and small whiskey and went outside to sit on the wall. A few remaining streaks of crimson and purple shot the sky to the west and the waning moon shone like polished bone over the valley. The promise of a storm had dissipated and the air was clear and dry again.

Well, Banks thought, at least he had talked to Brian and would get to see him soon. He looked forward to hearing the band. He had heard Brian practicing his guitar when he lived at home, of course, and had been impressed by the way he had picked it up so easily. Unlike Banks.

Way back in the Beatles days, when every kid tried to learn guitar, he had managed about three badly fingered chords before packing it in. He envied Brian his talent, perhaps in the same way he envied him his freedom. There had been a time when Banks had also contemplated the bohemian life. What he would actually have done, he didn’t know; after all, he had no facility for music or writing or painting. He could have been a hanger-on, perhaps, a roadie, or just a real cool guy. It didn’t seem to matter back then. But Jem’s death soured the dream for him and he ended up joining the police. He was living with Sandra, too, by then, wildly in love and thinking seriously, for the first time in his life, of a real future together with someone. Kids. Mortgage. The lot. Besides, deep down, he knew he needed a career with some sort of disciplined structure, or God knew what would happen to him. He didn’t really fancy the armed forces, and with images of the never-to-be-found Graham Marshall in his mind, that left the police. Mysteries to solve; bullies to send down.

Maybe he should have followed his original impulse and dropped out, he thought, looking back and considering all that had happened lately. But no. He wasn’t going to fall into that trap. It would be far too easy. He had chosen the life and the job he had wanted – had two great kids and a slightly shop-soiled career to show for it – and he couldn’t imagine himself doing anything else.