That sounded like something of a romantic notion to Banks, but it made him think of Briggflatts, the Basil Bunting poem he had listened to on CD since hearing Mark Knopfler’s song “Basil.” There was something about that mix of landscape, history and lost love that struck a chord deep inside him. Maybe it was all connected with the expulsion from the Garden of Eden. At any rate, Ursula Pemberton was right. He felt it here, too, on the Northumberland coast, just as he did in Whitby, and even in Eastvale, itself no stranger to history, with an eleventh-century castle reputed to have been one of the many temporary prisons to Mary Queen of Scots.

“There’s plenty of history in London,” Banks said. “Some would argue far more than up here.”

“Yes. It’s true enough, isn’t it? The Tower and St. Paul’s and all that. It’s not a competition, I know. I suppose I just wasn’t paying attention when we lived there. It was all a bit in your face. It seems more subtle and mystical here, but the connection is more direct. The pace of life gives you time to pay attention to its depths. In London there’s always something else going on—the noise, the crowds. Superficial usually. Parties. Theater. I don’t think I ever really stopped to look at the past there. Not really look. But then I was a modern young sixties woman, newly wed, living for the moment, not the old and the antique, except as far as clothes were concerned. I suppose it’s not so much the place as me, is it?”

“I’d guess it’s a bit of both.”

“A confluence? Perhaps. But you didn’t come all this way to listen to an old woman prattle on about history. What can I help you with, Superintendent? You were very circumspect on the telephone.”

“Was I? I suppose it’s a delicate subject. It’s about your first husband.”

“Tony?”

“Yes.”

She stared out to sea. It must have been the wind, Banks thought, that made her eyes water. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. Yes.” She called to the dogs and they carried on walking. “It was a long time ago. Nearly fifty years. Just an acid flashback, as we used to say.”

“You took drugs?”

“Superintendent! Tony and I were an educated, hip couple-about-town. This was London in the mid-sixties. Tony was in advertising, so we hung out with a lot of artists and would-be writers, filmmakers, photographers and models: Jean Shrimpton, Terence Stamp, David Bailey. What do you think? Not that I’d ever admit to having said so.”

Banks smiled. “I think the statute of limitations on that ran out a long time ago.”

“Good. I know I certainly put it behind me. So what is it you want to know about Tony?”

“What sort of man was he?”