Even then, I think I sensed that something bad was happening. The days between Christmas and the New Year had always seemed dark and ominous; but now, with my father growing increasingly ill and one of my boys missing from home, the darkness had grown like a shadow. But one boy’s disappearance was far from being headline news. A bombing by Welsh nationalists; mass disruption from the snow; the imminent threat of a miners’ strike—all took precedence over one missing boy. Nutter appeared on page 4, where, in the absence of real news, speculation was all we had. A number of theories had been voiced, including the possibility that this might be a kidnapping, designed to put pressure on Nutter, MP, whose outspoken views—on Northern Ireland, for instance—might have attracted attention. But Nutter was neither interesting, nor photogenic, nor young enough to win readers’ hearts, and so, for the first few days, at least, other things took center stage.

One was my father’s condition. The other was Eric, who’d been facing troubles of his own, and whose mother (with whom he lived) was already beginning to show the first signs of dementia. Eric was devoted to his mother, and, knowing I’d experienced something similar with my own parents, had taken to calling on me at home for reassurance and advice. Not that I had much to give; but over that Christmas he stopped by my house every couple of days or so. He stopped by again on New Year’s Eve—the day after Nutter disappeared—looking, as always, slightly harassed.

Eric knew Charlie Nutter, of course, although he’d never taught him, and the boy’s disappearance had obviously upset him more than I would have expected. We talked about it for some time, speculating fruitlessly on why the boy might have run away—neither of us dared believe that Charlie Nutter might be dead—until I happened to mention my conversation with Harry on the subject of Nutter’s sexuality.

“Did you tell the police?” Eric said.

I shook my head. “Is it relevant?”

Eric shrugged. “You hear stories,” he said.

“What kind of stories?”

“I don’t know. Perverts, preying on young boys.” He lit a Gauloise. He’d recently taken up smoking, mostly, I thought, to calm his nerves. Eric could be sensitive about the most unlikely things, and his mother’s illness, the end of term, and Nutter’s disappearance all seemed to have added to the strain.

He said: “Have you spoken to Harry yet?”

“No,” I said. “Do you think I should?”

Eric shook his head. “No. I think you should keep well away. Because if that boy turns up dead, they’re going to be asking questions.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “Why? You think because Harry’s gay—”