“Don’t apologize, love. I’ve got no complaints. They turned over every stone they could find, but who’d think to dig there, eight miles away? I mean, they could hardly dig up the whole county, could they?”

“I suppose not,” Michelle agreed.

“And there were those missing kids out Manchester way,” Mrs. Marshall went on. “What they later called the Moors Murders. It wasn’t until a couple of months after our Graham disappeared, though, that Brady and Hindley got caught, and then it was all over the news, of course.”

Michelle knew about Ian Brady and Myra Hindley, the Moors Murderers, even though she had been only a child at the time. As with Jack the Ripper, Reginald Christie and the Yorkshire Ripper, the horror of their acts was etched into the consciousness of future generations. She hadn’t realized, though, just how closely their crimes were linked chronologically with Graham Marshall’s disappearance. It might have been natural for Detective Superintendent Harris at least to assume that Graham’s disappearance could somehow be linked with the victims of Brady and Hindley. On the other hand, Peterborough was over a hundred and thirty miles from Manchester, and Brady and Hindley tended to stick to their own neck of the woods.

Before Michelle could formulate her next question, another woman walked into the room. She bore a strong facial resemblance to the boy in the photograph—the same small, straight nose, oval chin and well-defined cheekbones—only the feminine aspects were even more enhanced in her. She wore her gray-streaked hair long, tied in a ponytail, and was casually dressed in a dark blue T-shirt and jeans. She was a little too thin for comfort, or perhaps Michelle was jealous, always feeling herself to be five or ten pounds overweight, and the stress of recent events showed in her features, as it did in Mrs. Marshall’s.

“This is Joan, my daughter,” Mrs. Marshall said.

Michelle stood and shook Joan’s limp hand.

“She lives in Folkestone, teaches at a comprehensive school there,” Mrs. Marshall added with obvious pride. “She was going on her holidays, but when she heard…well, she wanted to be with us.”

“I understand,” said Michelle. “Were you and Graham close, Joan?”

“As close as any brother and sister with two years between them can be in their teens,” said Joan with a rueful smile. She sat on the floor in front of the television and crossed her legs. “Actually, I’m not being fair. Graham wasn’t like most other boys his age. He even bought me presents. He didn’t tease me or torment me. If anything, he was very protective.”

“From what?”

“Sorry?”

“What did he have to protect you from?”

“Oh, I didn’t mean anything in particular. You know, just in general. If anyone tried to bully me or anything like that.”

“Boys?”

“Well, I was only twelve when he disappeared, but yes, there were a couple of over-amorous local lads he sent packing.”

“Was Graham a tough lad?”

“Not really,” said Mrs. Marshall. “Mind you, he never backed away from a fight. When we moved and he first went to school here, there was a bit of bullying—you know, the way they always like to test the new kid—but in his first week our Graham took on the school bully. He didn’t win, but he put up a good fight, blacked an eye and bloodied a nose, so nobody bothered him after that.”