“According to them, he didn’t,” said Enderby. “Apparently he was too far gone to get it up. Bloody waste, if you ask me. They were lovely-looking girls.” He smiled at the memory. “Not wearing very much, either, when I interviewed them. That’s one of the little things you don’t forget in a hurry. Not so little, either, if you catch my drift.”

“Could Greaves not have sneaked away for a while during the night? They must have both slept, or passed out, at some time.”

“Look, when you get right down to it, any one of them could have done it. At least anyone who could still walk in a straight line. We didn’t really set great store by the alibis, as such. For a start, hardly any of them could remember much about the previous evening, or even what time they finally went to bed. They might have been wandering about all night, for all I know, and not even noticed Merchant in the swimming pool.”

“So what made you rule out murder so quickly?”

“I told you. No real motive. No evidence that he’d been pushed.”

“But Merchant could have got into an argument with someone, gone a bit over the top.”

“Oh, he could have, yes. But no one says he did, so what are we supposed to do, jump to conclusions and pick someone? Anyone?”

“What about an intruder?”

“Couldn’t be ruled out, either. It was easy enough to get into the grounds. But again, there was no evidence of an intruder, and nothing was stolen. Besides, Merchant’s injuries were consistent with falling into a swimming pool and drowning, which was what happened. Look, if you ask me, at worst it could have been a bit of stoned and drunken larking around that went wrong. I’m not saying that’s what happened, because there’s no proof, but if they were all stoned or pissed, which they were, and they started running around the pool playing tag or what have you, and someone tagged Merchant just a bit too hard and he ended up in the pool dead… Well, what would you do?”

“First off,” said Banks, “I’d try to get him out of there. There was no way I could be sure he was dead. Then I’d probably try artificial respiration, or the kiss of life or whatever it was back then, while someone called an ambulance.”

“Aye,” said Enderby. “And if you’d had as much drugs in your system as they had, you’d probably have just stood there for half an hour twiddling your thumbs before doing anything, and then the first thing you’d have done is get rid of your stash.”

“Did the drugs squad search the premises? There was no mention in the file.”

“Between you and me, we searched the place. Oh, we found a bit of marijuana, a few tabs of LSD, some mandies. But nothing hard.”

“What happened?”

“We decided, in the light of everything else – like a body to deal with – that we wouldn’t bring charges. We just disposed of the stuff. I mean, what were we to do, arrest them all for possession?”

Disposed of? Banks doubted that. Consumed or sold, more likely. But there was no point in opening that can of worms. “Did you get any sense that they’d cooked up a story between them?”

“No. As I said, half of them couldn’t even remember the party. It was all pretty fragmented and inconclusive.”

“Lord Jessop was present, right?”

“Right. Probably about the most coherent of the lot. That was before he got into the hard stuff.”

“And the most influential?”

“I can see where you’re going with this. Of course nobody wanted a scandal. It was bad enough as it was. Maybe that’s why we didn’t bring drugs charges. There’d been enough of that over the past two or three years with the Stones bust, and it was all beginning to seem pretty ridiculous. Especially after The Times ran that editorial about breaking a butterfly on a wheel. Within hours we had them all banging at the door and jumping over the walls. The News of the World, People, Daily Mirror, you name them. So even if someone else had been involved in a bit of horseplay, the thinking went, then it had still been an accident, and there was no point in inviting scandal. As we couldn’t prove that anyone else had been involved and no one was admitting to it, that was the end of it. Tea’s done. Fancy another pot?”

“No, thank you,” said Banks. “If there’s nothing more you can tell me, I’d better be off.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

“It wasn’t disappointing.”

“Look, you never did really tell me what it was all about. Remember, we’re in the same job, or used to be.”

Banks was so used to not giving out any more information than he needed to that he sometimes forgot to say entirely why he was asking about something. “We found a writer by the name of Nick Barber dead. You might have read about it.”

“Sounds vaguely familiar,” said Enderby. “I try to keep up.”

“What you won’t have read about is that he was working on a story about the Mad Hatters, on Vic Greaves and the band’s early days in particular.”

“Interesting,” said Enderby. “But I still don’t see why you’re asking about Robin Merchant’s death.”

“It was just something Barber said to a girlfriend,” Banks said. “He mentioned something about a juicy story with a murder.”

“Now you’ve got me interested,” said Enderby. “A murder, you say?”

“That’s right. I suppose it was probably just journalistic license, trying to impress his girlfriend.”

“Not necessarily,” said Enderby.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I’m pretty sure that Robin Merchant’s death was accidental, but that wasn’t the first time I was out at Swainsview Lodge in connection with a suspicious death.”

“Really?” said Banks. “Do tell.”

Enderby stood up. “Look, the sun’s well over the yardarm. How about we head down to my local and I’ll tell you over a pint?”

“I’m driving,” said Banks.

“That’s all right,” said Enderby. “You can buy me one and watch me drink it.”

“What took you out there?” Banks asked.

“A murder,” said Enderby, eyes glittering. “A real one that time.”

Saturday, 20th September, 1969

“She won’t come out of her room,” Janet Chadwick said as she sat with her husband eating tea on Saturday evening, football results on the telly. Chadwick was filling in his pools coupon, but it was soon clear that the £230,000 jackpot was going to elude him this week, just as it had every other week.

Chadwick ate some toad-in-hole after giving it a liberal dip in the gravy. “What’s wrong with her now?”

“She won’t say. She came dashing in late this afternoon and went straight up to her room. I called to her, knocked on her door, but she wouldn’t answer.”

“Did you go in?”

“No. She has to be allowed some privacy, Stan. She’s sixteen.”

“I know. I know. But this is unusual, missing her tea like this. And it’s Saturday. Doesn’t she usually go out Saturday night?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll have a word with her after tea.”

“Be careful with her, Stan. You know how on edge she seems these days.”

Chadwick touched his wife’s wrist. “I’ll be careful. I’m not really the terrible child-gobbling monster you think I am.”

Janet laughed. “I don’t think you’re a monster. She’s just at a difficult age. A father doesn’t always understand as much as a mother does.”

“I’ll tread gently, don’t worry.”

They finished their tea in silence, and while Janet went to wash the dishes, Chadwick went upstairs to try to talk to Yvonne. He tapped softly at her door but got no answer. He tapped again, a little louder, but all he heard was a muffled “Go away.” There wasn’t even any music playing. Yvonne must have had her transistor radio turned off. Another unusual sign.

Chadwick reckoned he had two choices: leave Yvonne to her own devices, or simply walk in. Janet would favor the former, laissez-faire approach, no doubt, but Chadwick was in a mood to take the bull by the horns. He’d had enough of Yvonne’s sneaking around, stopping out all night, her secrets and lies and prima-donna behavior. Now was the time to see what was at the bottom of it. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and walked in.