Coronation Street was one of those rituals every Monday and Wednesday when, tea over, dishes washed and put away, homework and odd jobs done, the family sat down to watch television together. So it was an unexpected disruption when someone knocked at the door. No one ever did that. As far as the Bankses were concerned, everyone on the street—everyone they knew, at any rate—watched Coronation Street and would no more think of interrupting that than…well, Ida Banks was lost for words. Arthur Banks answered the door, prepared to send the commercial traveler and his suitcase of goods packing.

The one thing that entered nobody’s mind when he did this, because it was such a disturbance of the normal routine, was that Joey, Banks’s pet budgie, was out of his cage, having his evening constitutional, and when Arthur Banks opened the front door to admit the two detectives, he left the living room door open, too. Joey seized the moment and flew away. No doubt he thought he was flying to the freedom of the open sky, but Banks knew, even at his young age, that such a pretty colored thing wouldn’t survive a day among the winged predators out there. When they realized what had happened, everyone dashed out in the garden looking to see where he had gone, but there wasn’t a trace. Joey had vanished, never to return.

More of a fuss might have been made over Joey’s escape had the new visitors not become the center of everyone’s awed attention. They were the first plainclothes policemen ever to enter the Banks household, and even young Banks himself forgot about Joey for the time being. Looking back now, it seemed like some sort of ill omen to him, but at the time he hadn’t seen any significance beyond the simple loss of a pet.

Both men wore suits and ties, Banks remembered, but no hats. One of them, the one who did most of the talking, was about the same age as his father, with slicked-back dark hair, a long nose, a general air of benevolence and a twinkle in his eye, the sort of kindly uncle who might slip you half a crown to go to the pictures and wink as he gave it to you. The other one was younger and more nondescript. Banks couldn’t remember much about him at all except that he had ginger hair, freckles and sticking-out ears. Banks couldn’t remember their names, if he had ever known them.

Banks’s father turned off the television set. Nine-year-old Roy just sat and gawped at the men. Neither detective apologized for disturbing the family. They sat, but didn’t relax, remaining perched on the edges of their chairs as the kindly uncle asked his questions and the other took notes. Banks couldn’t remember the exact wording after so many years, but imagined it went along the following lines.

“You know why we’re here, don’t you?”

“It’s about Graham, isn’t it?”

“Yes. You were a friend of his, right?”