She reached Wilmer Road at the far end of the estate. Even now, years later and in mid-morning, there wasn’t much traffic, and most of it was for the DIY center, which hadn’t existed back in 1965. Michelle was almost certain that Graham knew his attacker and that he got in the car willingly, taking his canvas bag of papers with him. If someone had tried to force him into a car, he would have dropped the papers and struggled, and the abductor was unlikely to stick around and pick them up.

But how could Graham be persuaded to go somewhere without finishing his paper round? A family emergency, perhaps? Michelle didn’t think so. His family only lived a few yards away, back on the estate; he could have walked there in less than a minute. There was no doubt that fourteen-year-old kids could act irresponsibly, so maybe he did just that and skived off somewhere for some reason.

As Michelle stood in the street watching the people come and go from the DIY center, she thought again about the missing notebooks and actions, and was struck by a notion so obvious she could have kicked herself for not seeing it earlier.

That the missing notebooks were Detective Superintendent Shaw’s disturbed her for a different reason now she realized what she should have seen the moment she discovered they were missing. Shaw was a mere DC, a junior, on the case, so what on earth could he have had to hide? He had no power; he wasn’t in charge, and he certainly hadn’t assigned the actions. He had simply been along taking notes of Detective Inspector Reg Proctor’s interviews; that was all.

Michelle had focused on Shaw mostly because she disliked him and resented the way he had been treating her, but when it came right down to it, the person in charge of the case, the one who might possibly have had the most to hide in the event of a future investigation was not Shaw but that legend of the local constabulary: Detective Superintendent John Harris.

Thinking about Jet Harris, and what he might possibly have had to hide, Michelle walked back to where she had left her car parked in front of the shops. Perhaps she was a little distracted by her thoughts, and perhaps she didn’t pay as much attention as she usually did to crossing the road, but on the other hand, perhaps the beige van with the tinted windows really did start up as she approached, and perhaps the driver really did put his foot on the accelerator when she stepped into the road.

Either way, she saw it coming—fast—and just had time to jump out of the way. The side of the van brushed against her hip as she stumbled and fell face forward onto the warm Tarmac, putting out her arms to break her fall. Another car honked and swerved around her and a woman across the street came over to help her to her feet. By the time Michelle realized what was happening, the van was out of sight. One thing she did remember, though: the number plate was so covered in mud it was impossible to read.