Bill Marshall, incapacitated by a stroke, looked at Michelle, blanket over his knees, walking stick by his side, slack-jawed, a little drool collecting at the corner of his mouth, one half of his face drooping lower than the other, as if it had melted like a Dali clock. He had been a big man, that much was obvious, but now his body had withered with disease. His eyes were alive, though, the whites a little cloudy, but the gray irises intense and watchful. Michelle said hello to him and thought she saw his head move just a fraction in greeting. Though he couldn’t speak, Mrs. Marshall had assured Michelle that he could understand everything they said.

Among the framed photographs on the mantelpiece above the electric fire, one was of a young boy, aged about thirteen or fourteen, hair in a “Beatle” cut popular in the early sixties, wearing a black polo neck, standing on a promenade with the sea in the background and a long pier off to one side. He was a good-looking kid, Michelle noticed, perhaps a little feminine, soft and delicate in his features, but he’d probably have grown up to be a real heartbreaker nonetheless.

Mrs. Marshall noticed her looking. “Yes, that’s our Graham. It was taken on the last holiday he had. We couldn’t go away that year—Bill had a big job to finish—so the Bankses took him to Blackpool with them. Their lad Alan was a good mate of his. Mr. Banks took that photo and gave it to us when they came back.” She paused. “No more than a week or so later, and Graham was gone forever.”

“He looks like a fine boy,” Michelle said.

Mrs. Marshall nodded and sniffed.

“I don’t want to bother you for long,” Michelle began, “but as you can imagine, finding your son after all this time has come as a bit of a shock to us, too. I need to ask a few more questions, if that’s all right?”

“You’ve got your job to do, love. Don’t worry about us. We did our mourning years ago. Most of it, anyhow.” She fingered the collar of her dress. “Funny, though, how it all just seems like it happened only yesterday, now you’ve found him.”

“I haven’t seen the reports yet, but I understand there was a full investigation in 1965, when Graham first disappeared?”

“Oh, yes. And I can’t fault them. They did their best. Searched high and low. Jet Harris himself was in charge, you know. At his wits’ end he was when all their efforts turned up nothing. He even came to search our house for clues himself.”

Detective Superintendent John Harris—nicknamed Jet after both his speed and his resemblance to The Shadows’ bass guitarist—was still a legend around divisional headquarters. Even Michelle had read the small biographical pamphlet published by one of the local bobbies with a literary bent, and she had been impressed by it, from his lowly birth in the Glasgow slums in 1920 to his Distinguished Conduct Medal with the Royal Naval Commandos in the Second World War, his rise through the ranks to detective chief superintendent, and his legendary retirement party in 1985. His framed photograph hung on the wall near the front entrance, and his hallowed name was mentioned only with suitably hushed awe. Michelle could imagine how his failure to solve the Graham Marshall case must have galled him. Harris had a reputation not only for closing cases quickly, but for hanging on and not letting go until he got a conviction. Since his death from cancer eight years ago, he had become even more revered. “It’ll have been done properly, then,” she said. “I don’t know what to say. Sometimes one just slips through the cracks.”