Linda gave a slight shake of her head, and Banks knew not to pursue the matter. Not yet, at any rate. Now that he could examine her more closely, he noticed that she had a few crow’s-feet around her eyes and crinkles at the edges of her mouth, but they only accentuated her beauty rather than detracting from it in any way. Her pale complexion was smooth, lightly freckled, the lips still full, a generous mouth. She wore no makeup, but with her skin, she didn’t need it. The features of her heart-shaped face were strong, but not too sharp or angular, the Nordic cheekbones well defined, nose in proportion with everything else. But it was her dark blue eyes that really tantalized. Banks could sense warmth, humor, tenderness and curiosity under a guarded surface, and a hint of sadness, loss and pain beneath all that. They didn’t flit around in search of an object to settle on, but remained fixed on whomever she was talking to. Her hands, usually a giveaway sign of age, seemed even younger than the rest of her, long tapered fingers and soft skin. No rings or jewelry of any kind. There were certain women, Banks thought, such as Cherie Lunghi and Francesca Annis, who seemed to become more attractive with age, and Linda Palmer was one of them.

“As I understand it,” he began, “you rang county HQ two days ago after being advised to do so by Childline, and you talked to a Detective Inspector Joanna MacDonald. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you call?”

“I didn’t know who else to talk to. Was I wrong?”

“No, I mean, why now? After so long. What was special about the day before yesterday?”

“Nothing.”

“So why?”

“I can’t explain it that easily.”

“Was it anything to do with other recent events?”

“Of course it was. It’s a need that’s been slowly building up in me. I’ve been plucking up the courage. You might not believe it, but I’m nervous as hell about this meeting. Would I have come forward if all those women hadn’t complained about Jimmy Savile? I don’t know. I like to think so, but probably not. I don’t think they would have all come forward, either, if they hadn’t known there were others with the same story to tell.”

It was true, Banks knew. At one point in the Savile investigation, the police had their knuckles rapped for not letting the accusers know they weren’t alone. In some ways, though, it was hardly their fault; they were only thinking of what possible repercussions such collusion might have if the case went to trial. “So it wasn’t that you forgot about it and just suddenly remembered?”