Alex nodded. “Memory is indeed a mysterious process.”

“And often not to be trusted.”

“True, it seems that as things lie there, they are…strangely metamorphosed.”

“A lovely Greek word, metamorphosed.”

“It is. One thinks of Ovid, of course.”

“But it happens to the past, doesn’t it? To our memories.”

“Yes.”

“Anyway,” Banks went on, “there was a general assumption at the time that my friend, Graham was his name, had been abducted by a pedophile—another Greek word, but not so lovely—and done away with.”

“It seems a reasonable assumption, given life in the cities. But might he not have simply run away from home?”

“That was another theory, but he had no reason to, as far as anyone knew. He was happy enough, and he never talked about running off. Anyway,” Banks went on, “all attempts to find him failed and he never turned up again. The thing is, about two months earlier, I was playing down by the river when a man came and grabbed me and tried to push me in.”

“What happened?”

“I was wiry and slippery enough to wriggle my way free and run off.”

“But you never told the authorities?”

“I never even told my parents.”

“Why not?”

“You know what kids are like, Alex. I wasn’t meant to be playing down there, for a start. It was quite a long way from home. I was also playing truant. I was supposed to be at school. And I suppose I blamed myself. I just didn’t want to get into trouble.”

Alex poured more ouzo. “So when your friend disappeared, you assumed it was the same man?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve been carrying the guilt all these years?”

“I suppose so. I never really thought about it that way, but every once in a while, when I think about it, I feel…it’s like an old wound that never quite heals. I don’t know. I think it was partly why I…”

“Why you what?”

“Never mind.”

“Why you became a policeman?”

Banks looked at him in astonishment. “How did you know?”

Alex was smiling. “I’ve met a few in my time. You get to recognize the signs.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, watchfulness, curiosity, a certain way of walking and sitting. Little things.”

Banks laughed. “By the sound of it, you’d make a pretty good policeman yourself, Alex.”

“Oh, no. I think not.”

“Why?”

“I don’t think I could ever be quite certain that I was on the right side.”

“And are you now?”

“I try to be.”

“So do I,” said Banks.

“I’m sure you are a good policeman. You must remember, though, in Greece…well, we’ve had our share of regimes. But please go on.”

Banks tapped the folded newspaper. “They’ve found him,” he said. “Buried by the roadside about eight miles away from where he disappeared.”

Alex whistled between his teeth.

“They don’t know the cause of death yet,” Banks went on, “but he couldn’t have got there by himself.”

“So perhaps the assumptions were right?”

“Yes.”

“And that makes you feel bad all over again, does it?”