“Either is possible, I suppose,” said Linda. “But I honestly can’t remember. As I said, I think I might recognize the same photo if I saw it again. My mind works with patterns like that. But can I remember where I saw it? Or the context? No. Maybe a newspaper. I’m sure I didn’t see it on TV. And it was about a month after Caxton and the other man raped me. I’d say late September at the earliest. Most likely sometime in early October.”

Banks leaned forward. “OK, so here’s what I’ve got in mind. We’re going to start by going through microfiche editions of the Yorkshire Evening Post from September 1967. You’d be surprised how little time it’ll take if you don’t have to do a lot of reading. Will you have a good look at the pictures and tell me if you recognize anyone?”

“I’ll try. Where are these microfilms?”

“Leeds Central Library. I’ll pick you up tomorrow after lunch, say about one. OK?”

“Fine with me.”

“And if that doesn’t work out, we can always move on to other sources. I suppose it’s possible he was in Melody Maker or Photoplay. Then there’s the nationals. You must have seen them sometimes, too?”

“I suppose so. Maybe when I passed a news vendor or something, but we didn’t get any at home except the People and the News of the World on Sundays.”

“A right collection of villains you’d find in those,” said Banks. “And that might take a bit longer to set up.”

“I don’t think there’s any hurry, do you?” She seemed to hesitate.

“What is it?” Banks asked.

“Something I’ve been wanting to ask you. Just tell me if I’m being impertinent or if it’s classified or anything.”

“OK. Fire away.”

“I’ve been thinking about that poor girl found dead on Bradham Lane.”

“Do you know the place?”

“I use it often if I’m heading south from Eastvale. It’s a lovely detour, far nicer than the A1. But it seems such a lonely, forlorn place to die. I saw the artist’s impression in the paper. She was very young, wasn’t she?”

“About fifteen, we think.”

“And you’ve no idea who she is, how she got there, or why?”

“I—”

Linda held her hand up. “I understand. You can’t talk about it. That’s OK. I’m sorry.”

“All I can tell you,” said Banks, “is that she was naked and we believe she was raped repeatedly, beaten to death and left by the side of the road. That much has all been in, or more or less implied by, the press.”

Linda put her hand to her mouth. “My god, the poor child.”

“And we do know who she was. We just found out.”

“How terrible for her parents.”