She had just about put her finger on the whole problem of historical abuse cases, Banks thought—or Wordsworth had. No real evidence, just a mix of fact and fiction. But there had to be a way to crack it, to crack Danny Caxton. Linda wasn’t the only victim, and in these cases there was strength in numbers, in independent, believable testimony. When it came right down to it, most people had no reason to lie about something like that; the only problem was getting their memories as clear as possible. Even then, Banks knew, you could ask five people to describe an event they had all witnessed together and you’d get five different accounts.

“You mentioned a newspaper,” Banks said. “Is that where you might have seen his picture?”

“It’s what comes to mind. You know, passing a rack of papers at the newsagent’s, a quick glance at someone’s paper getting on or off a bus. It feels like it was that sort of flash.”

“How long after the assault?”

“I can’t remember exactly. It wasn’t all that long, though. After summer but before winter. October, maybe. As I said, I was in bad shape for a few months, maybe a year, though I still managed to function. School, and all that. I was just jumpy, and I got depressed sometimes. I lost interest in things. Reading. Songs. Hockey. Hanging out with my friends. They started to think I was weird and ignore me. My marks went down, of course. My mother took me to a child psychologist, but I don’t really think that did any good. The same doctor who’d given me the tonic before gave me some more pills, but I only pretended to take them after the first few made everything even more fuzzy. I suppose they were all just trying to help. I was probably behaving like a real brat.”

“But you never sought the photograph out later, tried to find it again?”

“No. I just wanted things to get better, to feel better, and when they started to, when the anxiety decreased and it felt like a heavy weight was lifting from me, I moved on, tried to forget.”

“Would you recognize the man if you saw the picture again?”

“Perhaps. I couldn’t describe him, but I think I might recognize that photo if I saw it again. Memory’s a strange thing. But I can’t say for sure.”

“So you didn’t ever go back and tell the police you’d seen a photo of the man who was with Caxton, a man who had also raped you and perhaps taken photos of you with Caxton?”

“No. They’d dropped the case by then. I don’t know that it would have changed anything.”