“Where did they do that?”

“David Grenfell’s house.”

“Other than group practice, did he ever stay out late on other occasions?”

“Once in a while. He was just a normal boy.”

“How much pocket money did you give him?”

“Five shillings a week. It was all we could afford. But he had his paper round and that made him a bit extra.”

“And you bought all his clothes?”

“Sometimes he’d save up if there was something he really wanted. Like a Beatles jumper. You know, like the one he’s wearing in the photo there.”

“So he didn’t go short of anything?”

“No. Not so’s you’d notice. Why? What are you trying to get at?”

“I’m just trying to get a picture of his activities, Mrs. Marshall. It’ll help me try to work out what might have happened to him, who might have stopped and picked him up.”

“You think it was somebody he knew?”

“I didn’t say that, but it’s possible.”

Mrs. Marshall fiddled with her necklace. The idea clearly upset her. Whether it was the idea of an acquaintance being responsible, or whether she had suspected such a thing deep down, was impossible to say. “But we didn’t know anybody like that,” she said.

“Like what?”

“A pervert,” she whispered.

“We don’t know that it was a pervert.”

“I don’t understand. That’s what the police said. Who else could it be?”

“Jet Harris told you that?”

“Yes.”

“Did anyone ever suggest, at any time, that Graham might have been abducted by someone he knew?”

“Heavens, no! Why would anyone do that?”

“Why, indeed?” said Michelle. “And you know nothing about any unsavory company Graham might have been keeping—perhaps on these occasions when he stayed out late or was gone all day?”

“No. He was with his friends. I don’t understand what you’re trying to say.”

“It’s all right,” said Michelle. “I’m not sure that I understand it myself. I suppose all I really want to ask is whether Graham had any friends you disliked, or spent time with anyone you didn’t approve of.”

“Oh. No. They were all just regular lads. We knew their mums and dads. They were just like us.”

“No older boys? No one you thought was a bad influence?”

“No.”

“And Graham never seemed to have more money than you expected him to have?”

Mrs. Marshall’s expression sharpened and Michelle knew she’d gone too far. She also knew that she had touched a raw nerve.

“Are you suggesting our Graham was a thief?”

“Of course not,” Michelle backtracked. “I just wondered if he maybe did other odd jobs he didn’t tell you about, other than the paper round, perhaps when he should have been at school.”

Mrs. Marshall still eyed her suspiciously. Bill Marshall seemed to be taking everything in, his beady eyes moving from one to the other as they spoke, but they were the only things moving in his face. If only he could talk, Michelle thought. And then she realized that would be no use. He wouldn’t tell her anything.