“He went on holiday with you shortly before he disappeared, so his mother told me.”

“Yes. His parents couldn’t go that year, so they let him come with us. It’s good to have someone your own age to hang about with when you’re away for a couple of weeks. It could get awfully boring with just parents and a younger brother.”

Michelle smiled. “Younger sister, too. When did you last see Graham?”

“Just the day before he disappeared. Saturday.”

“What did you do?”

Banks gazed away into the trees before answering. “Do? What we usually did on Saturdays. In the morning we went to the Palace, to the matinee. Flash Gordon or Hopalong Cassidy, a Three Stooges short.”

“And the afternoon?”

“In town. There was an electrical shop on Bridge Street that used to sell records. Long gone now. Three or four of us would sometimes crowd into one of those booths and smoke ourselves silly listening to the latest singles.”

“And that night?”

“Don’t remember. I think I just stayed in watching TV. Saturday nights were good. Juke Box Jury, Doctor Who, Dixon of Dock Green. Then there was The Avengers, but I don’t think it was on that summer. I don’t remember it, anyway.”

“Anything odd about the day at all? About Graham?”

“You know, for the life of me I can’t remember anything unusual. I’m thinking perhaps I didn’t know him very well, after all.”

Michelle was getting the strong impression that Banks did know something, that he was holding back. She didn’t know why, but she was certain that was the case.

“Number twelve?” A young girl carrying two plates wandered into the garden.

Banks glanced at the number the bartender had given him. “Over here,” he said.

She delivered the plates. Michelle gazed at her prawn sandwich, wondering if she’d be able to finish it. Banks tucked into his Yorkshire pudding and sausages for a while, then said, “I used to do Graham’s paper round before him, before the shop changed owners. It used to be Thackeray’s until old man Thackeray got TB and let the business run into the ground. That’s when Bradford bought the shop and built it up again.”

“But you didn’t go back?”

“No. I’d got an after-school job at the mushroom farm down past the allotments. Filthy work, but it paid well, at least for back then.”

“Ever have any trouble on the paper round?”

“No. I was thinking about that on my way here, among other things.”

“No strangers ever invited you inside or anything?”

“There was one bloke who always seemed a bit weird at the time, though he was probably harmless.”

“Oh?” Michelle took out her notebook, prawn sandwich still untouched on the plate in front of her, now arousing the interest of a passing bluebottle.

Banks swatted the fly away. “Better eat it soon,” he said.

“Who was this bloke you were talking about?”

“I can’t remember the number, but it was near the end of Hazel Crescent, before you crossed Wilmer Road. Thing was, he was about the only one ever awake at that time, and I got the impression he hadn’t even gone to bed. He’d open the door in his pajamas and ask me to come in for a smoke or drink or whatever, but I always said no.”