of John Darrow, but his colouring was as light as his mother's had been.
"Whose boat?" he called out cheerfully as he entered.
"Mine," Lynley replied.
The boy sauntered over, tossing fair hair off his forehead in that self-conscious way of the young. "Dead nice, that." He gazed out the window longingly. "Set you back a few quid."
"And continues to do so. It guzzles petrol as if I were the sole support of British Petroleum. Most of the time, frankly, I think about taking on your mode of transportation."
"Sorry?"
Lynley nodded towards the street. "Your motorbike."
"Oh that!" The boy laughed. "Quite a piece, that. Got in a smash with it last week and it didn't even take a dent. Not that you'd notice if it had. It's so old that-"
"You've chores to do, Teddy," John Darrow interrupted sharply. "See to them."
While his words effectively ended the conversation between his son and the London policeman, they also served to remind the others of the time. The farmers dropped coins and notes onto the bar, the old woman by the fire gave a loud snort and awoke, and within moments only Lynley and John Darrow were left in the pub. The muted sound of rock and roll and a banging of cupboards in the fl at above them spoke of Teddy seeing to his chores.
"He's not in school," Lynley noted.
Darrow shook his head. "He's fi nished. Like his mum in that. Didn't hold much with books."
"Your wife didn't read?"
"Hannah? Girl never opened a book that I saw. Didn't even own one."
Lynley felt in his pocket for his cigarettes, lit one thoughtfully, opened the file on Hannah Darrow's death. He removed her suicide note. "That's odd, then, isn't it? Where do you suppose she copied this from?"
Darrow pressed his lips together as he recognised the paper Lynley had shown him once before. "I've nothing more to say on't."
"You do, I'm afraid." Lynley joined the man at the bar, Hannah's note in his hand. "Because she was murdered, Mr. Darrow, and I think you've known that for fi fteen years. Frankly, up until this morning, I was certain you'd done the murdering yourself. Now I'm not so sure. But I have no intention of leaving today until you tell me the truth. Joy Sinclair died because she came too close to understanding what happened to your wife. So if you think her death is going to be swept aside because you'd rather not talk about what happened in this village in 1973, I suggest you reconsider. Or we can all go into Mildenhall and chat with Chief Constable Plater. The three of us. You and Teddy and I. For if you won't cooperate, I've no doubt your son has some pertinent memory of his mother."
"You leave the lad out of it! He's nothing to do with this! He's never known! He can't know!"
"Know what?" Lynley asked. The publican played with the porcelain pulls on the ale and the lager, but his face was wary. Lynley continued. "Listen to me, Darrow. I don't know what happened. But a sixteen-year-old boy- just like your son-was brutally murdered because he came too close to a killer. The same killer-I swear it, I feel it-who murdered your wife. And I know she was murdered. So for God's sake, help me before someone else dies."
Darrow stared at him dully. "A boy, you say?"
Lynley heard rather than saw the initial crumbling of Darrow's defences. He pressed the advantage mercilessly. "A boy called Gowan Kilbride. All he wanted in life was to go to London to be another James Bond. A boy's dream, wasn't it? But he died on the steps of a scullery in Scotland, with his face and chest scalded like cooked meat and a butcher knife in his back. And if the killer comes here next, wondering how much Joy Sinclair managed to learn from you...How in God's name will you protect your son's life or your own from a man or woman you don't even know!"
Darrow openly struggled with the weight of what Lynley was asking him to do: to go back into the past, to resurrect, to relive. This, in the hope that he and his son might be secure from a killer who had touched their lives with devastating cruelty so many years ago.
His tongue flicked across his dry lips. "It was a man."
***
DARROW LOCKED the pub door, and they moved to a table by the fire. He brought an unopened bottle of Old Bushmill's with him, twisted off