“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.”

“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.