“Yes,” said Banks. “Without anyone telling them who was on a sex offenders list, if we even had such things then. And as often as not, the community dealt with it. I think they stopped short of murder and castration where I grew up, but one or two local pervs upped sticks for no apparent reason. Warned off, I should think.”

“But they’d only go somewhere else.”

“That’s the problem. If what we’re hearing is true, people like Danny Caxton didn’t even get warned off, so they just carried on as they liked, year after year.”

“And nobody stopped them. We didn’t stop them.”

“No, we didn’t. Here it is.”

The three small cottages stood on the opposite side of the road from the main village, and Linda Palmer lived in the one with the green Mini parked outside. Banks and Winsome opened the gate, walked down the narrow hedge-lined path and flight of stone stairs, then Banks knocked on the sturdy red door. It was a warm afternoon, and even though he had slung his jacket over his shoulder, he could already feel the sweat sticking his shirt to his skin, trickling and tickling down the groove of his spine. The heat didn’t seem to bother Winsome. She was as cool as ever in her tailored navy jacket and skirt.

When the door finally opened, he found himself face to face with a tall, slender woman with short ash-blond hair cut in a jagged fringe. Her hand gripped his and then Winsome’s in a firm handshake.

“Come on in, both of you,” she said. “I’m sorry I took so long to answer the door, but I was out in the garden. It’s such a beautiful day, it seemed a shame to waste it. Will you join me? Or do we have to sit on uncomfortable seats in the dark to do this?”

“We’d be happy to join you,” Banks said.

She moved ahead of them gracefully, looking good in close-fitting jeans and a loose white cotton tunic. The interior of the house seemed dark after the bright sun, but before their eyes had time to adjust they went through the open French doors and found themselves outside again. This time, they were in a different world. The river wasn’t very wide at this point, and it ran swift and deep at the bottom of the sloping lawn, the sun flashing like diamonds on its shifting, coiling surface, its sound constant but ever-changing. The opposite riverbank was overgrown with trees, some of them willows weeping down into the water, others leaning at precarious angles, as if they were about to topple in at any moment. Above the trees, it was possible to make out the pattern of drystone walls on the higher slopes of the opposite daleside, Tetchley Fell reaching high above Helmthorpe, close to where Banks lived, and much greener this summer after the rains.