“That’s some cover-up,” said AC Gervaise. “But surely your DI Chadwick must have known?”

“Possibly,” Banks agreed. “At least, I assume he would have been the one to get the order to cease and desist. But seeing as he’s long dead, we can hardly ask him, can we?” He paused for a moment. “But we can do the next best thing—talk to his oppo DC Bradley. He’s alive, at least he was when I spoke with him ten years ago about that pop festival murder. I was going to talk to him and Chadwick’s daughter about the lack of investigation on Linda’s case, anyway. Now I’ve got a bit more to ask them about.”

AC Gervaise sniffed. “Seems this DI Chadwick has left quite a legacy.”

“Yes,” said Banks. “I could probably make a career out of just working over his cold cases.”

YVONNE REEVES still lived in a bay-window semi on the outskirts of Durham. A light breeze ruffled the thick foliage of the trees that shaded the street and gave some shade from the sun. Yvonne ushered Banks and Winsome into the living room, which had been redecorated since Banks’s last visit. It seemed brighter and airier than he remembered. Yvonne didn’t offer tea but sat down opposite the two visitors and folded her hands in her lap. She wore black trousers and a cotton print top and seemed to have lost a bit of weight since his last visit. Banks remembered her being more full-figured. She wore her gray hair cut short, and its thinness, along with that of her body, made Banks wonder whether she was suffering from a serious illness. She seemed on the ball, however, and didn’t appear to be lacking in energy. There were a few more lines on her face than last time, though that was only to be expected. She would have been fourteen in 1967, Banks had calculated, the same age as Linda Palmer, though she looked older. They might have even known each other, as they had both grown up in West Leeds.

“I seem to remember you were here about one of my dad’s old cases a while ago, weren’t you?” she said.

“Going on for ten years back,” said Banks.

“Is it that long?”

“Just about.”

She looked at Winsome. “I don’t remember you, love.”

“I was just a wet-behind-the-ears DC back then,” Winsome said, with a sideways glance at Banks.

Yvonne smiled and turned back to Banks. “So what is it this time?”

“Another of your father’s old cases.”

“I’m sure I told you last time that he didn’t bring his work at home—except for what we talked about then, when I was involved with those hippies and the Brimleigh Festival murder. But that was only because of me.”

“I know,” said Banks. “It’s an even older crime than that.”

“When?”

“Summer of 1967.”

Yvonne stared out of the window as if lost in memories. “My goodness. I must have just turned fourteen then.”

“That was my estimate.”