Bradley must be about seventy now, Banks calculated, but he was still in good shape. He had lost a bit of hair since the last visit, but he hadn’t put on any weight, and nor did he seem any more stooped or stiffer with age. With his sharp-creased white trousers and short-sleeve V-neck pullover, despite the heat, he resembled a cricketer at the start of play, though it was probably regular rounds of golf, not cricket, that kept him in shape. Maybe a little tennis, too. Banks made a note to get more exercise, though he knew he probably wouldn’t do it. Two five- or six-mile walks a week and regular shorter strolls near his cottage seemed to suit him fine. And he still had the kind of metabolism that kept him trim no matter what he ate or drank.

“This is one of the things some people find hard to believe in detective novels and on TV,” said Bradley gesturing to the cups of tea and plate of biscuits. “The tea or coffee. Especially Americans. Seems too genteel and twee to them, I suppose. I don’t think their coppers are quite so well treated when they come calling.”

“I could just imagine someone offering the Continental Op a cup of tea,” Winsome said.

They all laughed.

“But it happens all the time here,” said Banks. “Sometimes I think we ought to have toilets installed in our cars.”

Bradley put his cup down, tilted his head to one side and stroked his cheek with his index finger. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, it seems that having worked for DI Chadwick is going to haunt me for the rest of my days.”

“Remind me how long you worked with him.”

“I was a DC for Chiller from 1966 to 1971, when I transferred to Suffolk CID.”

“Chiller?” said Winsome.

“Nickname,” explained Bradley. “He was a bit of an icy sort of character. Cool in the extreme, and I don’t mean in the ‘hip’ sort of way.”

“And DI Chadwick died in 1973?” Banks said.

“Right. We didn’t really keep in touch after I left. I just heard through the grapevine, which could be slow in those days.”

“Was there a rift of some sort?”

“Not at all. It was just our way. I moved on. Chiller let go with both hands.”

“How’s your memory of 1967?”

“How could I forget? It was the year that hippies suddenly became a worldwide phenomenon. Oh, they’d been around a while, probably since ’65 or so, even in Leeds, but ’67 was the breakout year, when the newspapers all got in on the act. San Francisco. Wear some flowers in your hair, and so on. Chiller hated the buggers.”

“The Summer of Love.”