They were sitting opposite each other at the end of a wooden bench in the narrow alley outside Whitelock’s, one of Leeds city center’s oldest pubs, and usually one of the most crowded. That lunchtime was no exception. Summer students sat on nearby benches smoking and idling over their pints, shop girls from the Trinity Centre gossiped over a gin and orange or white wine spritzers and office clerks chatted over a quick half of bitter. The used plates, emptied of their beef in ale pies, burgers, hotdogs or cheese and chutney sandwiches, were piling up. The staff could hardly keep up with the serving, let alone the clearing away. The buildings were high on both sides of the narrow alley, letting in no sun, but the heat certainly had everyone wilting, Banks included. Blackstone remained immaculate and cool in suit, shirt and tie. With the glasses, bald spot on top and tufts of hair above his ears, he was getting to resemble Philip Larkin or Eric Morecambe a bit more every time Banks saw him. He had also put on a little weight, Banks noticed. Though the alley was crowded, there was a gap between Banks and Blackstone and the group of students, German by the sound of them, sitting next to them. And it wasn’t too noisy to have a conversation.

Banks had spent the morning with Winsome going over the itemized lists of stuff the search team had taken from Caxton’s house the previous evening and sending out inquiries for lists of his friends, employees and associates in the late sixties. There was nothing so far from the search, only a bit of mild Internet porn, but there were diaries and appointment calendars that might prove useful in pinning down his movements at critical times, and predigital photographs that might link him with some of his victims. He had left Winsome to continue the task while he drove to Leeds.

“There were always rumors about him,” Blackstone said. “You know he lived not too far from here for a while?”

“Yes. Otley, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right. Had a nice big house after his first flush of fame in the early sixties. Before my time, of course, but there were rumors of parties. Orgies, I suppose. Quite the ‘A’ guest list, too, if the stories are to be believed. High-ranking coppers, judges, politicians, a bishop or two.”

“Well, he certainly got his immunity from somewhere. What were the rumors?”

“Mostly that he liked them young. I mean, he wasn’t that old then himself.”

“Underage?”

“Never heard that mentioned specifically.”

“Unwilling?”

“I think everyone assumed the girls threw themselves at him.”

“That’s what he told us. One of the accusers who’s come forward lives near Eastvale. I’ve been assigned the investigation.”

“Lucky you. Any hope?”

“Maybe. A glimmer.”

“So what do you want from me?”