“No, thanks, Dad,” said Banks. “Tea will be fine.”

“Up to you,” said Arthur Banks. “The sun’s well over the yardarm. I’ll have that bottle of ale while you’re up, love.”

Ida Banks disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Banks and his father to their uneasy silence.

“Any progress?” Banks senior finally asked.

“On what?”

“Your old pal. Graham Marshall.”

“Not much,” said Banks.

“That why you’re here again?”

“No,” Banks lied. “It’s not my case. It’s the funeral tomorrow.”

Arthur Banks nodded.

Banks’s mother popped her head around the kitchen door. “I knew I had something to tell you, Alan. I’ve got a head like a sieve these days. I was talking to Elsie Grenfell yesterday, and she said her David’s coming down for the service tomorrow. And that Major lad’s supposed to be here as well. Won’t it be exciting, seeing all your old pals again?”

“Yes,” said Banks, smiling to himself. Some things, like the Coronation Street ritual—and thank the Lord there was still ten minutes to go before the program started—never changed. Paul Major had always been “that Major lad” to Ida Banks, even though she knew full well that his name was Paul. It was meant to indicate that she didn’t quite approve of him. Banks couldn’t imagine why. Of all of them, Paul Major had been the most goody-goody, the one most likely to become a chartered accountant or a banker.

“What about Steve?” Banks asked. “Steve Hill?”

“I haven’t heard anything about him for years,” Ida Banks said, then disappeared back into the kitchen.

It wasn’t surprising. The Hills had moved off the estate many years ago, when Steve’s dad got transferred to Northumberland. Banks had lost track of them and didn’t know where they lived now. He wondered if Steve had even heard about the finding of Graham’s bones.

“I don’t suppose it came to anything, what we were talking about in the Coach last time you were here?” Arthur Banks said.

“About the Krays and Mr. Marshall? Probably not. But it was useful background.”

Arthur Banks coughed. “Had over half the Metropolitan Police in their pockets, the Krays did, in their time.”

“So I’ve heard.”

Mrs. Banks came through with the tea and her husband’s beer on a rose-patterned tray. “Our Roy phoned this afternoon,” she said, beaming. “He said to say hello.”

“How is he?” Banks asked.

“Thriving, he said. He’s jetting off to America for some business meetings, so he just wanted us to know he’d be away for a few days in case we were worried or anything.”

“Oh, good,” said Banks who, much to his mother’s chagrin, he imagined, never jetted anywhere—unless Greece counted. Just like brother Roy to let his mother know what a high-powered life he was leading. He wondered what kind of shady dealings Roy was up to in America. None of his business.

“There was a program on telly the other night about that police corruption scandal a few years back,” Banks’s father said. “Interesting, some of the things your lot get up to.”