“Yes, love,” the woman said with a smile. “What can I do for you?”

“Are you Mrs. Walker?”

“Indeed I am.”

“I don’t know if you can do anything,” said Michelle, presenting her warrant card, “but you might have heard we found some bones not long ago and—”

“The lad who used to work here?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“I read about it. Terrible business.”

“It is.”

“But I don’t see how I can help you. It was before my time.”

“When did you come here?”

“My husband and I bought the shop in the autumn of 1966.”

“Did you buy it from Mr. Bradford, the previous owner?”

“As far as I know we did. The estate agent handled all the details, along with my husband, of course, bless his soul.”

“Mr. Walker is deceased?”

“A good ten years now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No need to be. He went just like that. Never felt a thing. Brain aneurysm. We had a good life together, and I’m well provided for.” She looked around the shop. “I can’t say it’s exactly a gold mine, but it’s a living. Hard work, too. People say I should retire, sell up, but what would I do with my time?”

“Did you know Graham Marshall at all?”

“No. We moved here from Spalding, so we didn’t know anyone at first. We’d been looking for a nice little newsagent’s shop and this one came on the market at the right price. Good timing, too, what with the new town development starting in 1967, shortly after we got here.”

“But you did meet Mr. Bradford?”

“Oh, yes. He was very helpful during the transition. Showed us the ropes and everything.”

“What was he like?”

“I can’t say I knew him well. My husband had most dealings with him. But he seemed all right. Pleasant enough. A bit abrupt, maybe. A bit stiff and military in his bearing. I remember he was something important during the war, a member of some special unit or other in Burma. But he was helpful.”

“Did you hear from him after you took over?”

“No.”

“Did he ever mention Graham?”

“Oh, yes. That’s why he left. Partly, at any rate. He said his heart hadn’t been in the business since the boy disappeared, so he wanted to move away and try to forget.”

“Do you know where he moved to?”

“The North, or so he said. Carlisle.”

“That’s certainly far enough away.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t suppose you had a forwarding address, did you?”

“Didn’t you know? Mr. Bradford died. Killed in a burglary not weeks after he moved. Tragic, it was. In all the local papers at the time.”

“Indeed?” said Michelle, curious. “No, I didn’t know.” It probably wasn’t relevant to her inquiry, but it was suspicious. One of the last people to see Graham alive had himself been killed.

Michelle thanked Mrs. Walker and went back outside. She crossed the road and started walking along Hazel Crescent, the same route Graham would have taken all those years ago. It was an early morning in August 1965, she remembered; the sun was just up, but an overcast sky made it still fairly dark. Everybody was sleeping off Saturday night, and the churchgoers were not even up yet. Lights would have been on in one or two windows, perhaps—the insomniacs and chronic early risers—but nobody had seen anything.