“I know Brimleigh Glen,” said Banks. He had taken his wife, Sandra, and the children, Brian and Tracy, on picnics there shortly after they had moved to Eastvale. “But I know nothing about any festival.”

“Probably before your time here,” said Enderby. “First weekend of September, 1969. Not so long after Woodstock and the Isle of Wight. It wasn’t one of the really big ones. It was overshadowed by the others. And it was also the only one they ever held there.”

“Who played?”

“The biggest names at the time were Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd and Fleetwood Mac. The others? Maybe you remember Family, the Incredible String Band, Roy Harper, Blodwyn Pig, Colosseum, the Liverpool Scene, Edgar Broughton and the rest. The usual late-sixties festival lineup.”

Banks knew all those names, even had a number of their CDs, or used to have. He would have to work harder at building up his collection again instead of just buying new stuff or recent reissues. He needed to make a note whenever he missed something he used to have. “How were the Mad Hatters involved?” he asked.

“They were one of the two local bands to play there, along with Jan Dukes de Grey. The Hatters were just getting big at the time, in late 1969, and it was a pivotal gig for them.”

“You’ve followed their career since then?” said Banks.

Enderby raised his glass. “Of course. I was more into blues back then – still am, really – but I got all their records. I mean, I met them, got a signed album. It was a big thrill. Even if I didn’t get to keep it.” He smiled at a distant memory.

“Why didn’t you get to keep it?”

“DI Chadwick took it for his daughter. Good Lord, Chiller Chadwick. I haven’t thought of him in years. What a cold, hard bastard he was to work for. Tough Scot, ex-army, hard as nails. The old school, you know, stickler for detail. Always perfectly turned out. You could see your reflection in his brogues. That sort of thing. I’m afraid I was a bit of a rebel back then. Let my hair grow down to my collar. He didn’t like it one bit. Good detective, though. I learned a lot from Chiller Chadwick. And he did apologize about the LP, I’ll give him that.”

“What happened to him?”

“No idea. Retired, I suppose. Maybe dead now. He was quite a few years older than me. Fought in the war. And he was with West Yorkshire, see. Leeds. They didn’t reckon we’d got anyone bright enough up here to solve a murder, and they might have been right at that. Anyway, I heard there was some sort of trouble with his daughter, and it affected his health.”

“What sort of trouble?”

“I don’t know. She went away to stay with relatives. I never met her. I think perhaps she was a bit of a wild child, though, and he wouldn’t stand for that, wouldn’t Chiller. You know what some of the kids were like back then, smoking marijuana, dropping acid, sleeping around. Anyway, whatever it was, he kept it under his hat. You should talk to his driver, if he’s still around.”

“Who’s that?”

“Young lad called Bradley. Simon Bradley. He was a DC then, Chiller’s driver. But now, who knows? Probably a chief constable.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Bit of an arse-licker. They always get ahead, don’t they?”

“What was Chadwick’s first name?”

“Stanley.”

Banks thought that Templeton or Winsome ought to be able to track Simon Bradley down easily enough, and if Leeds was involved, he might be able to enlist the help of DI Ken Blackstone to find out about Chadwick. He offered Enderby another drink, which Enderby accepted. Banks’s pint glass, fortunately, was still half full.

“I take it this murder was solved?” Banks asked when he returned with the drink.

“Oh, yes. We got him, all right.”

“So back to how the Mad Hatters and Swainsview Lodge were involved?”

“Oh, yes, forgot about that, didn’t I? Well, Vic Greaves was the victim’s cousin, see, and he’d arranged for her and her friend to get backstage passes for the festival. While she was backstage during Led Zeppelin’s performance on the last night, this cousin, Linda Lofthouse, decided to take a walk in the woods by herself. That’s where she was killed.”

“Any sexual motive?”

“She wasn’t raped, if that’s what you mean. They did find some semen on the back of her dress, though, so what he did obviously gave him some sort of thrill. Secretor. Mind you, it was a common enough blood group. A, if I remember correctly, same as the victim’s. We didn’t have DNA and all that fancy forensic technology back then, so we had to rely on good old-fashioned police work.”

“Did you recover the murder weapon?”

“Eventually. Complete with traces of group A blood and the killer’s fingerprints.”

“Very handy. I suppose he could have argued that it was his own blood. It was his knife, after all.”

“He could have, but he didn’t. Our forensics blokes were good. They also found traces of white fiber and a strand of dyed cotton wedged between the blade and the handle. These were eventually linked to the victim’s dress. There was no doubt about it. The dye on its own was enough.”

“Seems pretty much cut and dried then.”

“It was. I told you. Anyway, a week or so later, the Mad Hatters were up at Swainsview rehearsing for a tour, so that was the first time I went there and met them.”

“Tell me a little bit more about the personalities involved.”

“Well, Vic Greaves was mad as a hatter, no doubt about it. When we tried to talk to him at Swainsview Lodge he was practically incoherent. You know, he’d keep going, like, ‘If you go down to the woods today…’ Remember, the ‘Teddy Bears’ Picnic’?”

Banks did remember. He had even heard another version of it recently when Vic Greaves said to him, “Vic’s gone down to the woods today.” Coincidence? He would have to find out. Greaves hadn’t been particularly coherent during the rest of their chat in Lyndgarth the other day, either. “Was he on drugs at the time?” Banks asked.

“He was on something, that’s for certain. Most of the people around him said he took LSD like it was Smarties. Maybe he did.”

“What about the rest of them?”

“The others weren’t too bad. Adrian Pritchard, the drummer, was a bit of a wild man, you know, wrecking hotel rooms on tour, getting into fights and that sort of thing, but he settled down. Reg Cooper, of course, well, he was the quiet one. He became one of the best, most respected guitarists in the business. Great songwriter, too, along with Terry Watson, the rhythm guitarist and lead singer, he pushed the band in a more pop direction. Robin Merchant always seemed the brightest of the bunch to me, though. He was educated, well read, articulate, but a bit weird in his tastes, you know; he was into all that occult stuff – magic, tarot, astrology, Aleister Crowley, Carlos Castaneda – but lots of them were, back then.”

“What about Chris Adams?”

“Seemed a nice enough bloke both occasions I met him. A bit straighter than the rest, maybe, but still one of the ‘beautiful people,’ if you catch my drift.”

“Did they all take drugs?”

“They all smoked a lot of dope and did acid. Robin Merchant obviously got into mandies in a big way, and later both Reg Cooper and Terry Watson had their problems with heroin and coke, but they’re clean now, as far as I know, have been for years. I’m not sure about Chris. I don’t think he was as much into it as the rest of them. Probably had to keep his wits about him for all the organizing managers have to do.”

“I suppose so,” said Banks. “Are you still in touch?”

“Good Lord, no. They wouldn’t know me from Adam. The bumbling, awestruck young detective who came around asking bothersome questions? They didn’t even remember me from the first time when I went there over Robin Merchant’s death. But I tried to keep up with their careers, you know. You do when you’ve actually met someone as famous as that, don’t you? I got to meet Pink Floyd, you know. And the Nice. Roy Harper, too. Now he was stoned. They live in Los Angeles these days, most of the Mad Hatters. Except Tania, I think.”