“She seemed a bit shocked, but she was very grateful.”

“I hope she enjoys it.”

“She will. She likes them. And again… you know…”

“Don’t worry about it, sir. Probably the best use for it. I’m only glad I didn’t get them to sign it to me.”

“Look, Enderby, about these young people. You seem to take them in your stride, but they stick in my craw.”

“I’d noticed that, sir. It’s just a matter of perspective.”

“But I don’t understand them at all.”

“They’re just kids, mostly, having a good time. Some of them are political, and that can become violent if they mix with the wrong types, and now that unscrupulous dealers have moved in on the drugs trade, that can be dangerous, too. A lot of them are confused by the world, and they’re looking for answers. Maybe we think they’re looking in all the wrong places, but they’re looking. What’s so wrong with wanting peace in the world?”

“Nothing. But most of them come from decent homes, have parents who love them. Why on earth do they want to run off and live in filthy squats and squalid bedsits?”

“You really don’t get it, do you, sir?”

“That’s why I’m asking you, dammit.”

“Freedom. You know yourself how parents often disapprove of what their kids do and prevent them from doing it. These kids don’t mind a bit of dirt and mess as long as they can come and go as they please.”

“But what about the drugs, the sex?”

“That’s what they want! I mean, they couldn’t smoke pot and have sex if they lived with their parents, could they?”

Chadwick shook his head.

“It’s more than that, though,” Enderby went on. “Especially in the north. A lot of kids, girls like Linda Lofthouse, for example, they see a pretty bleak future waiting for them. Marriage, babies, dirty nappies, washing, cooking, a life of drudgery, slavery even. It can look a lot like a prison, if you’ve got a bit of imagination and intelligence, as it seems she had. And for the blokes it’s not that much different. Same boring job at the factory, day in day out, down at the same old pub with your same old cronies night after night. Footie on Saturdays, telly most nights. If they catch a glimpse of something else, if they’ve got a bit about them, you can see how it might appeal. An escape, perhaps? Something new. Something different.”

“But marriage and family are the cornerstones of our civilization.”

“I know that, sir. I’m just trying to answer your question. Put myself in their shoes. Marriage and family are our traditional values. A lot of kids today argue against them, say that’s why the world’s in the trouble it’s in. War. Famine. Greed. And girls these days think there ought to be more for them in life. They want to work, for example, and get paid as much as men for doing the same job.”

“They’ll be after our jobs before long.”

“I wouldn’t be too surprised, sir.”

“Freedom, eh?” said Chadwick. “Is that what it’s all about?”

“I think so, sir. A lot of it, at any rate. Freedom to think what you want and do what you want. The rest is just trappings, icing on the cake.”

“But what about responsibility? What about consequences?”

“They’re young, sir. Indestructible and immortal. They don’t worry too much about those sorts of things.”

“I thought freedom was what I was fighting for in the war.”

“It was, sir. And we won.”

“And this is the result?”

Enderby shrugged.

“All right,” said Chadwick. “I take your point. We’ll just have to live with it, then, won’t we? Another fried slice?”

“Don’t mind if I do, sir.”

Tuesday, 16th September, 1969

It was raining when Chadwick and Enderby paid their visit to Bayswater Terrace, and the rows of slate-roofed, redbrick houses looked suitably gloomy. DI Broome had found the number of the house they wanted easily enough. It wasn’t known as a drug house especially, though Broome had no doubt that drugs were consumed there, but the police had been looking for a dealer who had slipped through their net a few months ago, and they had visited all his possible known haunts, including this house, rented by a Dennis Nokes since early 1967. According to their information, the occupancy turnover was pretty high and included students, hippies and general layabouts. Nokes described himself as a student and a musician, but as far as anyone knew, he was on the dole.

After the previous day’s exhausting session with the Mad Hatters, Chadwick wasn’t looking forward to the interview. He also hadn’t been certain when was the best time to call to find somebody home. In the end he decided it didn’t matter, so they went around lunchtime. Either these people didn’t work or they were students, and the university term hadn’t started yet, so the odds were that someone would be there at almost any time of the day or night.

Chadwick could hear the sound of a solo acoustic guitar coming from inside the house, which was encouraging. It stopped when Enderby knocked on the door, and they could hear someone shuffling down the hall. It turned out to be a young girl, surely no older than Yvonne, wearing only a long grubby white T-shirt with a target on the front, which hardly covered her bare thighs. The top did nothing much to hide her breasts, either, as she clearly wasn’t wearing a bra.

“Police,” Enderby said. They showed their warrant cards and introduced themselves.

She didn’t looked scared or nervous, merely puzzled. “Police? Yeah. Right. Okay. Come in, then.” And she stood aside. When they were all inside the hall, she reached her arms in the air, pulling the T-shirt up even higher, and yawned. As he averted his gaze, Chadwick could see that Enderby made no effort to do likewise, that he was gazing with open admiration at her exposed thighs and pubic hair.

“You woke me up,” the girl said. “I was having a nice dream.”

“Who is it, Julie?” came a voice from upstairs, followed by a young man peering down from the landing, a guitar in his hand.

“Police,” said Julie.

“Okay, right, just a minute.” There was a short pause while the young man disappeared back into his room, then visited the toilet. Chadwick thought he could hear the sound of a few quids’ worth of marijuana flushing down the bowl. If he’d been drugs squad, the young lad wouldn’t have stood a chance. When he came down he was without his guitar. “What can I do for you?” he asked.

“Are you Dennis Nokes?”

“Yes.”

“We’d like to talk to you. Is there somewhere we can go?”

Nokes gestured toward the rear. “Kitchen. Julie’s crashing in the front room. Go back to bed, Julie. It’s okay. I’ll take care of it.”

Chadwick could just about make out a sleeping bag, or a pile of blankets, on the floor before the door closed.

The kitchen was cleaner than Chadwick would have expected, but Janet would definitely have turned her nose up and gone at it with the Ajax and Domestos. The chairs were covered with some sort of red plastic material that had cracked and lined like parchment over time, and the table with a red-and-white-checked oilcloth, and on it lay a magazine called Oz with a photograph of a white man embracing a naked black man on the cover. Beside that stood an open jar of orange marmalade, rim encrusted with dried syrup, a half-wrapped slab of Lurpak butter and some bread crumbs. Nearby were a bottle of Camp coffee, salt and pepper shakers, a packet of Cocoa Krispies and a half-empty bottle of milk. Not to mention the overflowing ashtray, to which Dennis Nokes, by the looks of it, was soon to add.

They sat down and Enderby took out his notebook and pen.

“It’s only tobacco,” Nokes said as he rolled a cigarette. He had a tangle of curly dark hair and finely chiseled, almost pixieish, features, and he wore an open-necked blue shirt with jeans and sandals. A necklace of tiny different-colored beads hung around his neck, and a silver bracelet engraved with various occult symbols encircled his left wrist.