“Well, that’s all right, then, isn’t it,” said Annie, who was thinking it was amazing what people would do when they were desperate. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Anderson.”

Vernon said nothing, just slammed the door behind her. Annie had noticed a bookie’s on the main road, just around the corner from Vernon’s street. She glanced at her watch. Time for a quick call before it closed. In her experience, bookies’ shops were always full of smoke, so she took a deep breath and went inside.

If this was the face of evil, then it was remarkably bland, Banks thought as he and Michelle were ushered into Rupert Mandeville’s presence by a young man who looked more like a clerk than a butler. In fact, Mandeville reminded Banks of the old prime minister, Edward Heath, who came to lead the party in opposition in 1965. Casually dressed in white cricket trousers, a cream shirt open at the collar, and a mauve V-neck pullover, he had the same slightly startled, slightly befuddled look about him as Heath, the same silver hair and pinkish skin. Why was it, Banks wondered, that every politician he had ever seen had skin like pink vinyl? Were they born that way?

The sheepskin rug was gone, replaced by a carpet with a complex Middle Eastern design, but the fireplace was the same one as in Graham’s photograph. Being in the room where the picture had been taken all those years ago made Banks shiver. What else had happened here? Had Graham been involved in sex acts, too? With Mandeville? He realized that he would probably never know. Reconstructing the past after so long was as faulty and unreliable a process as memory itself.

At least they now had some idea how Mandeville knew about the progress of Michelle’s investigation, even if they couldn’t prove anything. According to a local reporter Michelle had rung from the station, Mandeville had spies everywhere; it was how he had managed to survive so long in such a ruthless world as politics. It was also rumored that he had close contacts within the police force, though no names were mentioned. That must have been how he knew so much about the investigation into Graham’s death, and the threat that it was beginning to pose for him.

Mandeville was courtesy personified, pulling out a chair for Michelle and offering refreshments, which they refused. “It’s been many years since I had a visit from the police,” he said. “How can I help you?”

“Would Geoff Talbot’s visit have been the one you’re thinking about?” Michelle asked. It was still her case, Banks knew, and he was only present because she had invited him; therefore, she got to ask the questions.

“I can’t say I remember the young man’s name.”

“You ought at least to remember the month and year: August 1965.”

“So long ago. How time flies.”

“And the reason for the visit.”

“It was a mistake. An apology was offered, and accepted.”