“How did Caxton and your father meet?”

“I don’t really know the details, but apparently there was a big do at work, something involving a donation to a police charity by Danny Caxton. He was always doing things like that, collecting for charity and stuff. They had a special gala ball or something, a dress-up job, and even though Dad was only an inspector, he got invited and he got to take Mum, too. Well, she was made up. Had to buy a new dress and everything. Our place was a madhouse for a week before.”

“Do you remember when this was?”

“It might have been around the time you’re talking about, 1967. There were pictures in the papers and everything. The chief constable, Crammond, was well in with Mr. Caxton, or so my dad said. And come to think of it, he did say something about a case, some colleague of Mr. Caxton’s being found dead.”

“Did he say anything more?”

“No. Just that it was bad timing, you know, for the charity ball and everything.”

“Do you remember anything else about the summer or autumn of 1967, especially anything to do with Danny Caxton?” Banks asked.

“Not about Mr. Caxton, no. Except Mum was thrilled to meet him, of course. She said they shook hands—he even kissed the back of her hand like a real gentleman—and he had such a lovely smile. No wonder they called him ‘The Man with the Big Smile.’ He even said, ‘Do your own thing!’ You remember, that was his catchphrase.”

“I remember,” said Banks.

“We seemed to argue a lot that summer, Dad and me. I was just starting to get excited about all the new music and the gatherings and stuff. Hendrix, Cream and so on. I wanted to wear flowers in my hair and go to San Francisco. My dad thought it was all stupid, of course. But there was something in the air, something different, something magical. Maybe it was just me. I suppose fourteen-year-old girls can be impressionable. But I was right in a way, wasn’t I? I mean things did happen—well, I told you about some of that last time you were here, I remember 1969 better. I was sixteen then and far more up for it.”

“Was there anything in particular about your father’s state of mind in the period we’re talking about?”

“He was grumpy a lot. I thought it might have been because of all the hippies starting up and all those demonstrations and marches. And the drugs. It made his job harder. Though I think most of that came later. But I suppose it wasn’t an easy time for the police, having lots of freedom-loving people taking mind-expanding drugs, and anarchists and communists on the streets ripping up cobblestones and whatever.”

Banks suppressed a smile. It was rare that anyone gave a thought to the policeman’s point of view, in his experience, but trust it to be a policeman’s daughter, whether she embraced hippiedom or not.