Banks was sticking to the chicken tikka masala, which was spicy enough, but not so hot it burned his taste buds to a crisp. He found that the older he got, the lower his tolerance for curries.

“By the way, how’s your Annie’s case going? I heard there’s been a few shenanigans there.”

“Nothing much,” said Banks. “A superintendent’s nose out of joint.”

“Grooming, isn’t it?”

“We think so.”

Burgess shoveled in another mouthful of vindaloo. “Thought so. Nasty business. What is it with that lot? You’d think the only bloody career choices they have are pedo pimp and terrorist.”

“I see you haven’t changed.”

“Well, I ask you. I thought we should touch base on Caxton, as it seems we’ve both been busy.”

“Well, I know I have.”

“It’s coming together. The Met’s working on active complaints from Brighton to Carlisle, about twenty-five in all between the mid-sixties and mid-eighties. He’s no Jimmy Savile or Cyril Smith, unless we’re only getting the tip of the iceberg, but he’s no Boy Scout, either.”

“What’s the age range?”

“Youngest is thirteen, oldest seventeen. And he’s not fussy about venue. One audience member from Do Your Own Thing! in the dressing room. You remember they used to invite a load of screaming teenage girls in the studio if they had a wannabe Cliff Richard or Elvis on?”

Banks nodded. He’d seen the program.

“Another in his dressing room at a panto. Puss in Boots. I wonder if he has a sense of irony. Several girls at a home for disturbed teens he supported for a while in the early seventies.”

“You think they’ll stand up? I mean, everyone’s kept it quiet for so long.”

“By sheer number alone, I’d say. But we’ve got a lot more than that. We’ve got names, dates, places and a hell of a pile of missing crime reports.”

“Snap,” said Banks. “He had quite a talent for disappearing things, it seems. Should’ve been a stage magician.”