Winsome managed a brief smile. “Yes, ma’am. Well, first off, I pushed Danny Caxton’s management company for that list of employees we’ve been after. I’d asked them before, but they were dragging their feet, going on about how many there were and how long ago it all was. I don’t think they were stalling particularly, just that it was another job on their table and there was nothing in it for them, I suppose, so why hurry? The secretary I spoke with this time was quite chatty. Must be a slow day. She seemed to find no reason to keep it from us, and when I expressed a sense of urgency, she faxed it to me. Monaghan’s name appeared, along with Philby, Leyland and Associates. I rang her back and asked her for more details about him, and she told me she didn’t know much, but it wasn’t unusual to hire freelancers or subcontract publicists from specialist firms. It happened a few times in Danny Caxton’s career. Monaghan was with him on and off from May 1966 until his death in October 1967. Monaghan took a break at home in London after the Blackpool summer season, and he headed back up north again to work with Caxton on the panto he was appearing in at the Bradford Alhambra that Christmas. Monaghan was married, by the way. I’ll see if I can find anything out about the widow. Anyway, the secretary I talked to knew nothing about Monaghan’s death—she wasn’t even born then—though she did say that most of the office knew they once had an employee who’d been murdered way back in the mists of time.”

“I suppose you would remember something like that,” Banks said. “Excellent work, Winsome. Now we have a concrete link between Monaghan and Caxton.”

“Yes, but it hasn’t exactly taken us anywhere, has it, guv?” said Winsome.

“I don’t know about that. An employee of Caxton’s, someone who led Linda to the car and back to the hotel, who raped her in the hotel room, along with Caxton, and two months or so later he’s murdered in a mysterious and gruesome way. Don’t tell me that’s just coincidence.”

“And the murder was never solved,” Winsome added.

“The murder was never even investigated,” Banks said. “Just like Linda Palmer’s original complaint. Sounds like orders from on high to me. We have the photo of Caxton with then chief constable Edward Crammond, and old gossip has it they were close, dinners together, golf club, even a cruise. Was Danny Caxton golden, or what?”

Banks could hear Adrian Moss’s sudden intake of breath. Phrases such as “orders from on high” were anathema to him. “Never mind, Adrian,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll find the right direction to spin it.”

Moss glowered at him.

“And nothing showed up in any of the documents we’ve seen,” Banks went on, “or any of the press reports. Nothing else to link Monaghan to Caxton. It was all kept quiet, if indeed anyone knew at all.”