“We’d need to go through the complete issues,” Banks said. “The photo might be part of a story and we’d need to know that story. We don’t know the theme. Surely they’re on microfiche somewhere? Old newspapers are fragile, aren’t they?”

Blackstone considered for a moment. “I think your best bet is Leeds Central Library. They’ve got a local studies department that has all the old YEPs on microfilm. It shouldn’t take too long to scroll through them. Would it be a problem, getting your victim to Leeds?”

“I can’t see why,” said Banks.

“Then there’s no reason you shouldn’t do it tomorrow.”

“That soon? Can you get it organized?”

“Sure. I know some of the staff there. We use the facility often. I’ll have a word, let them know to get it set up. October 1967?”

Banks pushed his plate of half-eaten pie aside. Blackstone followed suit. “If it’s going to be that easy, we might as well throw in September and November as well, if that’s no problem.”

“Not at all. Early afternoon good?”

“Fine with me. Thanks, Ken.”

“Right, then. You know where the place is?”

“I ought to do.”

“I’ll ring you in the morning, tell you who to ask for.”

“In that case,” said Banks, “I’ll put off interviewing Bradley and Chadwick’s daughter until Linda’s had a chance to examine the photos. Who knows, I might have a few more things to ask them about if we get lucky on this.” He finished his Coke and stood up. “Shall we?”

The young woman with the children gave Banks a weary smile as they left.

Blackstone nudged him. “You could have been in there, mate. I saw the way she was eyeing you. Ready-made family.”

Banks laughed. “Just what I need right now.”

WYTHERTON WAS about a forty-five-minute drive from Eastvale. At the heart of the Heights estate, Southam Terrace was a narrow, potholed street of through terrace houses blackened by years of industrial smoke. The council might well have restored the Victorian town hall to its former sandstone glory, but nobody had bothered sandblasting the streets of Wytherton Heights. Even the sunlight didn’t do much to brighten up the sooty facades and grimy slate roofs. Gerry parked her lime-green Corsa across from the Moffat house, and she and Annie walked over the hot tarmac. The smell of warm tar provoked in Annie a sudden memory of sitting by the roadside on hot summer days when she was a child, picking off chunks of softened tar and rolling them into balls.

The gate was closed, peeling green paint in need of a touch-up, and beyond it two children played on a postage-stamp lawn littered with bright-colored plastic toys. The children, one about two, the other about five, looked up suspiciously from the structure they were building of different-colored interlocking blocks.