“Which brings a whole lot of assumptions into question,” said Banks, giving Winsome the nod to get ready to leave. “Simon, I know it’s not easy, remembering,” he said. “But do you think you could write down what you’ve just told us, and anything else you can remember about the case?” Banks gave him a card. “You can email it to me, if you like. Or fax it.”

Bradley took the card. “Yes. Yes, of course.” He smiled at Winsome. “Nice to meet you, lass.” He stood up and shook their hands. “Let me—”

“Don’t worry,” said Banks. “We can find our way out. Thanks.”

As they were leaving, Banks glanced behind him. He had noticed a cabinet by the wall, and he saw a pale Bradley open its door and take out a bottle of dark amber liquid. Just before he closed the front door behind him, he heard Bradley call out, “Pam? Pam? Where’s the bloody glasses, love? I need a drink.”

Excerpt from Linda Palmer’s Memoir

We found the Coffee Cellar on our third day, the second having been spent mostly on the beach. It was a scorcher, and we slathered ourselves in Ambre Solaire and just lay there on towels on the sand letting the rays tan us. Those were the days when it was called suntan cream rather than sunblock. You could even buy stuff that would give you a tan if you just rubbed it on, but you ended up orange and obviously fake.

The Coffee Cellar was a bohemian establishment. At least, that was what Melanie said. She liked to use words like that. You walked down some narrow wooden stairs in the dark, moved aside the beaded curtains and there you were, all dim shaded lights, brick walls pied with saltpeter, fishnets on the ceiling and upturned barrels for tables. There was a boy in a striped shirt working a hissing espresso machine behind the wooden counter. French posters hung on the walls—mostly cafe and cabaret scenes. I didn’t recognize them at the time, but in my student days I came to know the familiar Toulouse-Lautrec and Renoir prints so popular in beatnik cafes of the fifties and sixties. Half-naked cancan dancers, prostitutes, absinthe drinkers, decadent poets sitting around outside Left Bank cafes arguing about philosophy.

The music was good, or so we thought. A lot more adventurous than the usual cafe fare. More “Brighter Shade of Pale” and “Light My Fire” than “Puppet on a String” and “The Last Waltz.” And we could smoke down there. Melanie and I smoked Sobranie Black Russians, Pall Mall filter tips, Peter Stuyvesant or those funny pastel-coloed tubes. We wouldn’t be seen dead with Woodies or Park Drive. We felt very grown-up and sophisticated in our coffee bar, smoking our exotic cigarettes, but perhaps to the boy behind the counter we just looked like two fourteen-year-olds trying to act older. He was always nice to us, though, and he even gave us a free biscuit each with our coffee one morning. I’d been smoking for about a year by the time I was fourteen, as had Melanie, though at first it had made me sick, and I had to work at it to get it right. We were secretive about it, of course—our parents would have killed us if they had known. I noticed my mother sniffing once or twice when we sat down for the evening meal, but when she mentioned the smell of smoke, I told her we’d been for a Coke at one of the seafront cafes in the afternoon, and the smoke must have got in our hair or clothes. You could smoke everywhere then.