“How would you do that?”

“I’d get an idea of what newspapers or magazines a fourteen-year-old might have seen in 1967 and come up with a pile of photocopies for her to sort through. Something like that.”

“Talk about a long shot.”

“Or maybe I’ll just start with the local paper and get lucky. Who knows? That’s the sort of thing that happens with these cold cases. Everything’s a long shot. Sometimes it seems as much about understanding the times as the characters involved.”

“1967? You ought to be good at that. One of your best years, wasn’t it?”

Banks smiled. “It was a very good year, but I was still just a kid, a bit too young to enjoy all the new freedoms people were talking about. Not that they ever reached Peterborough. But musically, it was great. The Summer of Love. The Doors, Jefferson Airplane, Pink Floyd, Love, Cream, Hendrix. Sergeant Pepper. Magnificent.”

“Well, you can listen to all your old records and relive it.”

“Not a bad idea, at that,” said Banks. “There was a dark side to it all, though, and I have a feeling that’s where I’ll be finding myself.”

“Don’t we always?” said Annie. “Don’t we always?”

6

IT WAS MONDAY MORNING, FIVE DAYS SINCE THE UNIDENTIFIED body had been found on Bradham Lane, and the eight-mile stretch was still closed to traffic in the hope that Stefan’s team would unearth some significant clue that had so far eluded their efforts. Fortunately, the lane was so little used that there was no immediate clamor for its reopening. A couple of cyclists had written letters to the local paper, but that was about all. Everyone else who had used it as a pleasant and convenient alternative had returned to the A1 temporarily without complaint.