‘Alan dropped out of school and started hanging out with a couple of no-hopers,’ she told him. ‘Younger boys, but oh they were brazen. Keith Hugh was one of ’em. He’s doing time for glassing his girl and knocking out her teeth. My Alan may have been a thief and a liar but he never raised a hand to a girl.’

Keith Hugh. Bish committed the name to memory. ‘And what about the other boy?’

‘Paulette Gilbert’s boy. Frank. Always thought they were better than us, the Gilberts.’

Mrs Penney had no idea of the Gilberts’ present whereabouts. Bish chatted with her until they’d finished the cake and tea, and once he’d left he rang Layla and asked her to do an internet search for a Frank Gilbert. She tracked him to the town of Keighley, ten miles south of Skipton, in a street that surprised him. Not too fancy, but a proud one, with neat gardens and cheerful passers-by. The man tending the garden at number twenty-seven was dressed in coveralls, tidying up the garden. All so civilised.

‘Frank Gilbert?’

The man looked up. He had a younger face than Bish’s, but less hair.

‘Who’s askin’?’

Bish held out a hand. ‘Bish Ortley.’

Frank Gilbert shook it with suspicion in his eyes.

‘I just wanted to talk to you about Alan Penney and Keith Hugh.’

Frank let the hand drop. ‘Don’t have anything to do with them.’

‘But you did thirteen years ago.’

‘They belong to a different time,’ Gilbert said, returning to what he had been doing with the strimmer. ‘And I’d like you to go. Now. You’re a copper and my family will be home any minute. I don’t want them upset. Do you hear?’

‘Why would they be upset, Mr Gilbert? I’m just asking questions. Did Keith Hugh or Alan Penney ever speak about a watch —’

‘I know nothing about a watch!’

The response was so quick and vehement that it had Bish’s pulse beating at a Violette LeBrac I-told-you-so speed. Frank Gilbert looked beyond Bish’s shoulder, a flicker of panic in his eyes.

‘Mr Gilbert, have you ever visited Malham Cove?’

‘Daddy!’

Bish turned to see a boy of about nine and a little girl walk up the path with their mother. A pretty woman. A question in her eye. The girl let go of her mother’s hand and ran into Frank Gilbert’s arms. Bish watched him hold her close.

‘What’s going on, Frankie?’ the woman asked.

‘Nothin’,’ he said. ‘Just about some of the lads I used to run with years back. Go inside,’ he said gently.

His wife wasn’t buying any of it but she ushered the kids into the house, turning back once while Bish and Gilbert stood in silence.

‘I’m not the same person who hung out with Keith Hugh and Alan Penney. My family is what matters now.’

‘I believe you, Frank. I honestly do. How old’s your little girl? Four? Five? That’s how old Violette LeBrac was when she lost her father.’