Danny Caxton, thought Banks. Shit. Celebrity, personality, presenter before presenters had even been invented. Household name. “The Man with the Big Smile.” Caxton had started his career in the late fifties with a few pop hits. He wasn’t a rock and roller, more of a crooner, a part of the Jim Reeves, Val Doonican and Matt Monro crowd. Perhaps the girls didn’t scream at him the same way they did for Elvis or the Beatles, but plenty drooled over him as their parents had drooled over Johnnie Ray or Frank Sinatra. From what Banks could remember, Caxton obviously had good business sense and he must have realized early on that a career in pop balladry doesn’t last forever. In the early sixties, he started to diversify. He had always had good comic timing and a knack for impersonating famous people, in addition to having the personality of an affable host. He compered variety shows, both live around the country and on television, cut the tapes at supermarket openings, judged beauty contests and quickly became the regular host of a popular talent-spotting program called Do Your Own Thing!, which lasted well into the late eighties. That was his catchphrase, too: “Do your own thing.” Spoken with a tongue-in-cheek knowingness that tipped a wink toward its hippie origins. Even during the sixties and seventies he had the occasional novelty hit record, and he made a couple of dreadful swinging sixties films when he was already too old and square for such roles. He would have known Jimmy Savile, Banks realized. They were of the same generation. Caxton went from strength to strength: summer seasons, Christmas pantomimes, a successful West End musical comedy. He had married a pop singer at some point, Banks remembered, and there had been an acrimonious and public divorce not long after. His career had slowed down in the early nineties, but he still appeared occasionally as a guest on chat shows and had even hosted the odd Christmas variety special in the noughties.

“I’m surprised to hear he’s still alive,” said Banks.

“Very much so,” said McLaughlin. “At eighty-five years of age.”

“And what does the CPS think?” Banks asked, glancing at the lawyer. He knew there had been some confusion in the Savile business as to whether the CPS hadn’t gone ahead with a prosecution because he was too old and infirm or because they thought the police had insufficient evidence. Banks knew the CPS had already been criticized for not acting sooner over Sir Cyril Smith, the Rochdale MP, who had been abusing young boys for years until his death in 2010. Now, no doubt, they were eager to show the public they were taking the lead on child sexual abuse and exploitation.

“He’s fair game as far as we’re concerned,” Janine Francis answered.

“And when did the offense take place, sir?” Banks asked Red Ron.

“Summer 1967.”