it all just seems like it happened only yesterday, now you’ve found him.”
“I haven’t seen the reports yet, but I understand there was a full investigation in 1965, when Graham first disappeared?”
“Oh, yes. And I can’t fault them. They did their best. Searched high and low. Jet Harris himself was in charge, you know. At his wits’ end he was when all their efforts turned up nothing. He even came to search our house for clues himself.”
Detective Superintendent John Harris–nicknamed Jet after both his speed and his resemblance to the Shadows’ bass guitarist–was still a legend around divisional headquarters. Even Michelle had read the small biographical pamphlet published by one of the local bobbies with a literary bent, and she had been impressed by it, from his lowly birth in the Glasgow slums in 1920, to his Distinguished Conduct Medal with the Royal Naval Commandos in the Second World War, his rise through the ranks to detective chief superintendent, and his legendary retirement party in 1985. His framed photograph hung on the wall near the front entrance, and his hallowed name was mentioned only with suitable hushed awe. Michelle could imagine how his failure to solve the Graham Marshall case must have galled him. Harris had a reputation not only for closing cases quickly, but for hanging on and not letting go until he got a conviction. Since his death from cancer eight years ago, he had become even more revered. “It’ll have been done properly, then,” she said. “I don’t know what to say. Sometimes one just slips though the cracks.”
“Don’t apologize, love. I’ve got no complaints. They turned over every stone they could find, but who’d think to dig there, eight miles away? I mean, they could hardly dig up the whole county, could they?”
“I suppose not,” Michelle agreed.
“And there were those missing kids out Manchester way,” Mrs. Marshall went on. “What they later called the Moors Murders. It wasn’t until a couple of months after our Graham disappeared, though, that Brady and Hindley got caught, and then it was all over the news, of course.”
Michelle knew about Ian Brady and Myra Hindley, the Moors Murderers, even though she had been only a child at the time. As with Jack the Ripper, Reginald Christie and the Yorkshire Ripper, the horror of their acts was etched into the consciousness of future generations. She hadn’t realized, though, just how close their crimes were linked chronologically with Graham Marshall’s disappearance. It might have been natural for Detective Superintendent Harris at least to assume that Graham’s disappearance could somehow be linked with the victims of Brady and Hindley. On the other hand, Peterborough was over 130 miles from Manchester, and Brady and Hindley tended to stick to their own neck of the woods.
Before Michelle could formulate her next question, another woman walked into the room. She bore a strong facial resemblance to the boy in the photograph–the same small, straight nose, oval chin and well-defined cheekbones–only the feminine aspects were even more enhanced in her. She wore her grey-streaked hair long, tied in a ponytail, and was casually dressed in a dark blue T-shirt and jeans. She was a little too thin for comfort, or perhaps Michelle was jealous, always feeling herself to be five or ten pounds overweight, and the stress of recent events showed in her features, as it did in Mrs. Marshall’s.
“This is Joan, my daughter,” Mrs. Marshall said.
Michelle stood and shook Joan’s limp hand.
“She lives in Folkestone, teaches at a comprehensive school there,” Mrs. Marshall added with obvious pride. “She was going on her holidays, but when she heard…well, she wanted to be with us.”
“I understand,” said Michelle. “Were you and Graham close, Joan?”
“As close as any brother and sister with two years between them can be in their teens,” said Joan, with a rueful smile. She sat on the floor
“I haven’t seen the reports yet, but I understand there was a full investigation in 1965, when Graham first disappeared?”
“Oh, yes. And I can’t fault them. They did their best. Searched high and low. Jet Harris himself was in charge, you know. At his wits’ end he was when all their efforts turned up nothing. He even came to search our house for clues himself.”
Detective Superintendent John Harris–nicknamed Jet after both his speed and his resemblance to the Shadows’ bass guitarist–was still a legend around divisional headquarters. Even Michelle had read the small biographical pamphlet published by one of the local bobbies with a literary bent, and she had been impressed by it, from his lowly birth in the Glasgow slums in 1920, to his Distinguished Conduct Medal with the Royal Naval Commandos in the Second World War, his rise through the ranks to detective chief superintendent, and his legendary retirement party in 1985. His framed photograph hung on the wall near the front entrance, and his hallowed name was mentioned only with suitable hushed awe. Michelle could imagine how his failure to solve the Graham Marshall case must have galled him. Harris had a reputation not only for closing cases quickly, but for hanging on and not letting go until he got a conviction. Since his death from cancer eight years ago, he had become even more revered. “It’ll have been done properly, then,” she said. “I don’t know what to say. Sometimes one just slips though the cracks.”
“Don’t apologize, love. I’ve got no complaints. They turned over every stone they could find, but who’d think to dig there, eight miles away? I mean, they could hardly dig up the whole county, could they?”
“I suppose not,” Michelle agreed.
“And there were those missing kids out Manchester way,” Mrs. Marshall went on. “What they later called the Moors Murders. It wasn’t until a couple of months after our Graham disappeared, though, that Brady and Hindley got caught, and then it was all over the news, of course.”
Michelle knew about Ian Brady and Myra Hindley, the Moors Murderers, even though she had been only a child at the time. As with Jack the Ripper, Reginald Christie and the Yorkshire Ripper, the horror of their acts was etched into the consciousness of future generations. She hadn’t realized, though, just how close their crimes were linked chronologically with Graham Marshall’s disappearance. It might have been natural for Detective Superintendent Harris at least to assume that Graham’s disappearance could somehow be linked with the victims of Brady and Hindley. On the other hand, Peterborough was over 130 miles from Manchester, and Brady and Hindley tended to stick to their own neck of the woods.
Before Michelle could formulate her next question, another woman walked into the room. She bore a strong facial resemblance to the boy in the photograph–the same small, straight nose, oval chin and well-defined cheekbones–only the feminine aspects were even more enhanced in her. She wore her grey-streaked hair long, tied in a ponytail, and was casually dressed in a dark blue T-shirt and jeans. She was a little too thin for comfort, or perhaps Michelle was jealous, always feeling herself to be five or ten pounds overweight, and the stress of recent events showed in her features, as it did in Mrs. Marshall’s.
“This is Joan, my daughter,” Mrs. Marshall said.
Michelle stood and shook Joan’s limp hand.
“She lives in Folkestone, teaches at a comprehensive school there,” Mrs. Marshall added with obvious pride. “She was going on her holidays, but when she heard…well, she wanted to be with us.”
“I understand,” said Michelle. “Were you and Graham close, Joan?”
“As close as any brother and sister with two years between them can be in their teens,” said Joan, with a rueful smile. She sat on the floor
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