“It was just a simple question, Mr. Ford. No need to get upset.”

Ford’s voice took on a piercing edge. “I’m not getting upset. But you’re prying. I hate people prying. I can’t tell you anything. Go talk to Lauren. Leave me alone.”

Banks stared at him for a moment. Ford wouldn’t meet his gaze. “If I find out you’ve been lying to me, Mr. Ford, I’ll be back. Do you understand?”

“I’m not lying. I haven’t done anything. Leave me alone.”

Before leaving, Banks showed him the artist’s impression of the girl Josie Batty had seen with Luke. Ford hardly glanced at the sketch and said he didn’t recognize her. He was weird, without a doubt, Banks thought as he started his car, but you couldn’t arrest people just for being weird. The volume went way up again, and Banks could hear Verdi’s Lacrimosa chasing him all the way to Lyndgarth.

“Thank you for seeing to the release, love,” Mrs. Marshall said. “We’ll be holding the funeral service at Saint Peter’s the day after tomorrow. Joan’s coming back up for it, of course. I must say the vicar’s been very good, considering none of us were what you’d call regular churchgoers. You’ll be there?”

“Yes, of course,” said Michelle. “There’s just one thing.”

“What’s that, love?”

Michelle told her about the rib they needed for evidence.

Mrs. Marshall frowned and thought for a moment. “I don’t think we need worry about a little thing like a missing rib, need we? Especially if it might help you.”

“Thank you,” said Michelle.

“You look tired, love. Is everything all right?”

“Yes. Fine.” Michelle managed to dredge up a weak smile.

“Is there any more news?”

“No, I’m afraid not. Only more questions.”

“I can’t understand what else I have to tell you, but please go ahead.”

Michelle leaned back in her chair. This was going to be difficult, she knew. To find out about any mischief Graham might have been up to without suggesting that he got up to mischief—which his mother would never accept—was almost to do the impossible. Still, she could but try. “Was Graham ever away from home for any periods of time?”

“What do you mean? Did we send him away?”

“No. But you know what kids are like. Sometimes they just like to take off and not tell you where they’ve been. They worry you sick but they don’t seem to realize it at the time.”

“Oh, I know what you mean. I’m not saying our Graham was any different from the other kids that way. He missed his tea from time to time, and once or twice he missed his nine-o’clock curfew. And many’s the occasion we didn’t see hide nor hair of him from dawn till dusk. Not during term time, mind you. Just weekends and school holidays he could be a bit unreliable.”

“Did you have any idea where he’d been when he turned up late?”

“Playing with his pals. Sometimes he’d have his guitar with him, too. They were practicing, see. The group.”