“This is just the beginning,” said Banks, thinking he might as well tell them. They would find out soon enough. “It looks very much as if we have a murder on our hands.”

A collective gasp rose from the drinkers, followed by more muted muttering. “Who was it, if I might ask?” said CC.

“I wish I knew,” said Banks. “Maybe you can help me there. All I know is that his name was Nick and he was staying at Moorview Cottage.”

“Mrs. Tanner’s young lad, then?” said CC. “She was in here looking for him not so long ago.”

“I know,” said Banks. “She found him.”

“Poor woman. Tell her there’s a drink on the house waiting for her, whatever she wants.”

“Have you seen her husband tonight?” Banks asked, remembering that Mrs. Tanner had told him her husband was at a darts match.

“Jack Tanner? No. He’s not welcome here.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’m sorry to say it, but he’s a troublemaker. Ask anyone. Soon as he’s got three or four pints into him he’s picking on someone.”

“I see,” said Banks. “That’s interesting to know.”

“Now, wait a minute,” protested CC. “I’m not saying he’s capable of owt like that.”

“Like what?”

“You know. What you said. Murdering someone.”

“Do you know anything about the young man?” Annie asked.

CC was so distracted by her breaking her silence that he stopped spluttering. “He came in a couple of times,” he said.

“Did he talk to anyone?”

“Only to ask for a drink, like. And food. He had a bar snack here once, didn’t he, Kelly?”

Kelly was on the verge of tears, Banks noticed. “Anything to add?” he asked her.

Even in the candlelight, Banks could see that she blushed. “No,” she said. “Why should I?”

“Just asking.”

“Look, he was just a normal bloke,” CC said. “You know, said hello, smiled, put his glass back on the bar when he left. Not like some.”

“Did he smoke?”

CC seemed puzzled by the question, then he said, “Yes. Yes, he did.”

“Did he stand at the bar and chat?” Annie asked.

“He wasn’t the chatty sort,” said CC. “He’d take his drink and go sit over there with the newspaper.” He gestured toward the hearth.

“Which newspaper?” Banks asked.

CC frowned. “The Independent,” he said. “I think he liked to do the crossword. Too hard for me, that one. I can barely manage the Daily Mirror. Why? Does it matter?”

Banks favored him with a tight smile. “Maybe it doesn’t,” he said, “but I like to know these things. It tells me he was intelligent, at any rate.”

“If you call doing crossword puzzles intelligent, I suppose it does. I think they’re a bit of a waste of time, myself.”

“Ah, but you can’t do them, can you?”

“Does either of you have any idea what he did for a living?” Annie asked, glancing from CC to Kelly and back.

“I told you,” said CC. “He wasn’t chatty, and I’m not especially the nosy type. Man wants to come in here and have a quiet drink, he’s more than welcome, as far as I’m concerned.”

“So it never came up?” Annie said.

“No. Maybe he was a writer or a reviewer or something.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, if he didn’t have the newspaper, he always had a book with him.” He glanced toward Banks. “And don’t ask me what book he was reading, because I didn’t spot the title.”

“Any idea what he was doing here, this time of year?” Banks asked.

“None. Look, we often get people staying at Moorview Cottage dropping by for a pint or a meal, and we don’t know any more or less about them than we did about him. You don’t get to know people that quickly, especially if they’re the quiet type.”

“Point taken,” said Banks. He knew quite well how long it took the locals to accept newcomers in a place like Fordham, and no holidaying cottager could ever stay long enough. “That just about wraps it up for now.” He looked at Annie. “Anything else you can think of?”

“No,” said Annie, putting away her notebook.

Banks drained his pint. “Right, then, we’ll be off, and someone will be over to take your statements.”

Kelly Soames was chewing on her plump pink lower lip, Banks noticed, glancing back as he followed Annie out of the pub.

Monday, 8th September, 1969

The newshounds had sniffed out a crime at about the same time that the incident van arrived, and the first on the scene was a Yorkshire Evening Post reporter, shortly followed by local radio and television, the same people who had no doubt been reporting on the festival. Chadwick knew that his relationship with them was held in a delicate balance. They were after a sensational story, one that would make people buy their newspapers or tune in to their channel, and Chadwick needed them on his side. They could be of invaluable help in identifying a victim, for example, or even in staging a reconstruction. In this case, there wasn’t much he could tell them. He didn’t go into details about the wounds, nor did he mention the flower painted on the victim’s cheek, though he knew that that was the sort of sensationalist information they wanted. The more he could keep out of the public domain, the better when it came to court. He did, however, get them to agree to let police look at the weekend’s footage. It would probably be a waste of time, but it had to be done.

When Chadwick was done at the field it was afternoon, and he realized he was hungry. He had DC Bradley drive him to the nearest village, Denleigh, about a mile to the northeast. It had turned into a fine day, and only a thin gauze of cloud hung in the sky to filter a little of the sun’s heat. The village had a sort of stunned appearance about it, and Chadwick noticed that it was unusually messy, the streets littered with wastepaper and empty cigarette packets.

At first it seemed there was nobody about, but then they saw a man walking by the village green and pulled up beside him. He was a tweedy sort with a stiff-brush mustache and a pipe. He looked to Chadwick like a retired military officer, reminded him of a colonel he’d had in Burma during the war.

“Anywhere to eat around here?” Chadwick asked, winding the window down.

“Fish-and-chip shop, just round the corner,” the man said. “Should be still open.” Then he peered more closely at Chadwick. “Do I know you?”

“I don’t think so,” Chadwick said. “I’m a policeman.”

“Huh. We could have done with a few more of your lot around this weekend,” the man went on. “By the way, Forbes is the name. Archie Forbes.”

They shook hands through the window. “Unfortunately, we can’t be everywhere, Mr. Forbes,” said Chadwick. “Was there any damage?”

“One of them broke the newsagent’s window when Ted told them he’d run out of cigarette papers. Some of them even slept in Mrs. Wrigley’s back garden. Scared her half to death. I suppose you’re here about that girl they found dead in a sleeping bag?”

“News travels fast.”

“It does around these parts. Communism. You mark my words. That’s what’s behind it. Communism.”

“Probably,” said Chadwick, moving to wind up the window.

Forbes kept talking. “I still have one or two contacts in the intelligence services, if you catch my drift,” he said, putting a crooked finger to the side of his nose, “and there’s no doubt in my mind, and in the minds of many other right-thinking people, I might add, that this is a lot more than just youthful high spirits. Behind it all you’ll find those French and German student anarchist groups, and behind them you’ll find communism. Need I spell it out, sir? The Russians.” He took a puff on his pipe. “There’s no doubt in my mind that there are some very unscrupulous people directing events behind the scenes, unscrupulous foreigners, for the most part, and their goal is the overthrow of democratic government everywhere. Drugs are only a part of their master plan. These are frightening times we live in.”