“Must be worth a bob or two now,” said Banks.

“Oh, I’d never sell it.”

“Still… did he say anything?”

“About Robin Merchant? No. Well, it was nothing to do with him, was it? That was the next summer, after McGarrity had been sent to jail, and my dad’s heart was starting to show the strain even more. We never really talked about those sorts of things – you know, the music and hippie stuff – not after I came back from London. I mean, I was done with that scene, and my dad was grateful for that, so he didn’t go on at me about it anymore. Mostly I threw myself into my A levels.”

“Does this mean anything to you?” Banks brought out a photocopy of the ringed numbers from the back page of Nick Barber’s book.

Yvonne frowned at it. “I’m afraid not,” she said. “I didn’t say I was a maths teacher.”

“We think it might be dates,” Banks explained, “most likely dates connected with the Mad Hatters tour schedule or something similar. But we’ve no idea which months or years.”

“Leaves it pretty wide open, doesn’t it, then?”

Annie looked at Banks and shrugged. “Well, that,” Banks said, “is just about it, unless DI Cabbot has any more questions for you.”

“No,” said Annie, standing and leaning forward to shake Yvonne’s hand. “Thanks for your time.”

“You’re welcome. I’m only sorry I couldn’t be any more help.”

“What do you think about what Yvonne told us?” Annie asked Banks over an after-work drink with cheese-and-pickle sandwiches in the Queen’s Arms. The bar was half empty and the pool table, happily, not in use. A couple of late-season tourists sat at the next table poring over Ordnance Survey maps and speaking German.

“I think what she said should make us perhaps just a little more suspicious of Stanley Chadwick and his motives,” said Banks.

“Chadwick? What do you mean?”

“If he really thought his daughter had been terrorized and threatened with rape, and he was on a personal crusade… who knows what he might have done? I try to imagine how I would behave if anything like that ever happened to Tracy and, I tell you, I can really frighten myself. Yvonne told us that McGarrity talked about the dead girl to her, about Linda Lofthouse. Admittedly, she didn’t say he’d given her any information only the killer could have known, but we both know that sort of thing mostly just happens on TV. But what he did say sounded damn suspicious to me. Imagine how it sounded to her father, at his wits’ end trying to catch a killer and worried about his daughter hanging around with hippies. Then he finds out this weirdo who terrorized her had a flick-knife and was seen wandering around with it at Brimleigh Festival. Imagine he puts the two together, and suddenly the light goes on. Yvonne told us he didn’t really look at anyone else for the crime after that. Rick Hayes went right out of the picture. It was McGarrity all the way, and only McGarrity.”

“But the evidence says McGarrity did it.”

“No, it doesn’t. Everyone knew that McGarrity carried a flick-knife with a tortoiseshell handle, including Stanley Chadwick. It wouldn’t have been that hard for him to get hold of one just like it. Don’t forget, Yvonne says she didn’t see the knife when McGarrity terrorized her.”

“Because he’d already hidden it.”

“Or lost it, as he said.”

“I don’t believe this,” said Annie. “You’d take the word of a convicted killer over a detective inspector with an unimpeachable reputation?”

“I’m just thinking out loud, for God’s sake, trying to get a handle on Nick Barber’s murder.”

“And have you?”

Banks sipped some Black Sheep. “I’m not sure yet. But I do believe that Chadwick could have obtained such a knife, tricked McGarrity into handling it, and got access to Linda Lofthouse’s clothing and blood samples. It might be a lot tougher now, but not necessarily back then, before PACE. Someone in Chadwick’s position would probably have had free run of the place. And I think he might have been driven to do it because of what had happened to his daughter. Remember, this was a man on a mission, convinced he’s right but unable to prove it by legitimate means. We’ve all been there. So in this case, because it’s personal, and because of suspicious and disturbing things his daughter has told him about McGarrity that he can’t use without bringing her into it and losing all credibility, he goes the extra mile and fabricates the vital bit of evidence he needs. Remember, apart from the knife there’s no case; it falls apart. And there’s another thing.”

“What?”

“Chadwick’s health. He was basically a decent, God-fearing, law-abiding copper with a strong Presbyterian background, probably deeply repressed because of his war experiences, and angry with what he saw around him – the disrespect of the young, the hedonism, the drugs.”

“Turned psychoanalyst now, have you?”

“You don’t need to be a psychoanalyst to know that if Chadwick really did fabricate a case against McGarrity, even for the best of reasons, it would tear a man like him apart. As Yvonne said, he was a dedicated copper. The law and basic human decency meant everything to him. He might have lost his faith during the war, but you can’t change your nature that easily.”

Annie put her glass to her cheek. “But McGarrity was seen near the murder scene, he was known to be seriously weird, he had a flick-knife, he was left-handed, and he had met the victim. Why do you insist on believing that he didn’t do it, and that a good copper turned bad?”

“I’m not insisting. I’m just trying it out for size. We’d never prove it now, anyway.”

“Except by proving that someone else killed Linda Lofthouse.”

“Well, there is that.”

“Who do you think?”

“My money’s on Vic Greaves.”

“Why, because he was mentally unstable?”

“That’s part of it, yes. He had a habit of not knowing what he was doing and he had dark visions on his acid trips. Remember, he took acid that night at Brimleigh, as well as on the night of Robin Merchant’s death. It doesn’t take a great stretch of the imagination to guess that maybe he heard voices telling him to do things. But Linda Lofthouse was his cousin, so if you work on the theory that most people are killed by someone they know, particularly a family member, it makes even more sense.”

“You don’t think he killed Robin Merchant, too, do you?”

“It’s not beyond the bounds of possibility. Maybe Merchant knew, or guessed?”

“But Greaves had no history of violence at all. Not to mention no motive.”

“Okay, I’ll give you all that. But it doesn’t mean he couldn’t have flipped. Drugs do very strange things to people.”

“What about Nick Barber?”

“He found out.”

“How?”

“I haven’t got that far yet.”

“Well,” said Annie, “I still think Stanley Chadwick got it right and Patrick McGarrity did it.”

“Even so, Rick Hayes might be worth another look, too, if we can find him.”

“If you insist.” Annie finished her Britvic Orange. “That’s my good deed for the day,” she said.

“What are you up to tomorrow?” Banks asked.

“Tomorrow? Browsing web sites, most likely. Why?”

“I just thought you might like to take an hour or two off and come out for Sunday lunch with me and meet Emilia.”

“Emilia?”

“Brian’s girlfriend. Didn’t I tell you? She’s an actress. Been on telly.”

“Really?”

“Bad Girls, among others.”

“One of my favorites. All right, sounds good.”

“Let’s just keep our fingers crossed that nothing interrupts us like it did the other night.”

For once, it wasn’t long after dark when Banks got home, having checked back at the station after his drink with Annie and found things ticking along nicely. Brian and Emilia were out somewhere, which allowed him a few delicious moments alone to listen to a recent CD purchase of Susan Graham singing French songs and enjoy a glass of Roy’s Amarone. When Brian and Emilia finally got back, the CD was almost over, and the glass of wine half empty. Banks went into the kitchen to greet them.