“Maybe I’m blanking it out for some reason, but I don’t.”

Banks turned to Paul. “Did he ever tell you where he got them?”

“Not that I remember. Why? Do you think it was Bradford?”

“It’s a possibility. A newsagent’s shop would be a pretty good outlet for things like that. And Graham always seemed to have money to spare.”

“He once told me he stole it from his mother’s purse,” said Dave. “I remember that.”

“Did you believe him?” Banks asked.

“Saw no reason not to. It shocked me, though, that he’d be so callous about it. I’d never have dared steal from my mother’s purse. She’d have killed me.” He put his hand to his mouth. “Oops, sorry about that. Didn’t mean it to come out that way.”

“It’s all right,” said Banks. “I very much doubt that Graham’s mother killed him for stealing from her purse.” On the other hand, Graham’s father, Banks thought, was another matter entirely. “I think there was more to it than that.”

“What?” Paul asked.

“I don’t know. I just think Graham had something going with Donald Bradford, most likely something involving porn. And I think that led to his death.”

“You think Bradford killed him?”

“It’s a possibility. Maybe he was helping distribute the stuff, or maybe he found out about it and was blackmailing Bradford. I don’t know. All I know is that there’s a connection.”

“Graham? Blackmailing?” said Dave. “Now, hold on a minute, Alan; this is our mate Graham we’re talking about. The one whose funeral we just went to. Remember? Stealing a few bob from his mum’s purse is one thing, but blackmail…?”

“I don’t think things were exactly as we thought they were back then,” said Banks.

“Come again?” said Dave.

“He means none of you knew I was queer, for a start,” said Paul.

Banks looked at him. “But we didn’t, did we? You’re right. And I don’t think we knew a hell of a lot about Graham, either, mate or not.” He looked at Dave. “For fuck’s sake, Dave, you don’t even remember the dirty magazines.”

“Maybe I’ve got a psychological block.”

“Do you at least remember the tree?” Banks asked.

“Our den? Of course I do. I remember lots of things. Just not looking at those magazines.”

“But you did,” said Paul. “I remember you once saying pictures like that must have been taken at Randy Mandy’s. Don’t you remember that?”

“Randy Mandy’s?” Banks asked. “What the hell’s that?”

“Don’t tell me you don’t remember, either,” said Paul, exasperated.

“Obviously I don’t,” said Banks. “What does it mean?”

“Randy Mandy’s? It was Rupert Mandeville’s place, that big house up Market Deeping way. Remember?”

Banks felt a vague recollection at the edge of his consciousness. “I think I remember.”

“It was just our joke, that’s all,” Paul went on. “We thought they had all sorts of sex orgies there. Like that place where Profumo used to go a couple of years earlier. Remember that? Christine Keeler and Mandy Rice-Davies?”