Free The Summer That Never Was by Peter Robinson Page B

new, and the premises used in 1965 were long since demolished and covered over by new housing estates or shopping centres. What complicated matters even more was that the original forces–Cambridge, Peterborough, Ely and Huntingdon–had amalgamated into the Mid-Anglia Constabulary in 1965, necessitating a major overhaul and restructuring, and became the present-day Cambridgeshire Constabulary in 1974.
    As one helpful duty constable after another suggested possibilities, Michelle had begun to despair of ever finding the old paperwork. About the only bright spot on the horizon was that the weather had improved that morning, and the sun was poking its lazy way through greasy rags of cloud. But that made the air humid, and Michelle was about to throw in the towel around lunchtime. She’d drunka bit too much wine the previous evening, too–something that was happening rather too often these days–and the fact that she didn’t feel 100 per cent didn’t help much either.
    When she finally did track the paperwork down, having sent DC Collins to Cambridge to make enquiries there, she could have kicked herself. It was deep in the bowels of Divisional Headquarters, not more than thirty feet or so below her office, and the civilian records clerk, Mrs. Metcalfe, proved to be a mine of information and let her sign out a couple of files. Why hadn’t Michelle thought to look there in the first place? Easy. She had only been at Thorpe Wood for a short time, and no one had given her the grand tour; she didn’t know that the basement was the repository for much of the county force’s old paperwork.
    The noise level was high in the open-plan squad room, phones ringing, men laughing at dirty jokes, doors opening and closing, but Michelle was able to shut it all out as she put on her reading glasses and opened the first folder, which contained maps and photos of the Hazels estate, along with a summary of any relevant witness statements that helped pin down Graham’s progress on the morning of 22nd August, 1965.
    One useful hand-drawn map showed Graham’s paper round in detail, listing all the houses he delivered to and, for good measure, what newspapers they took. The poor lad must have had a hell of a heavy load, as many of the Sunday papers were bulky with magazines and supplements.
    At the eastern end of the estate, Wilmer Road separated the Hazels from an area of older houses, soon to be demolished. It was at the T-junction between Wilmer and Hazel Crescent that Graham had delivered his last newspaper, a News of the World , to Mr. and Mrs. Halloran, who lived in the corner house.
    The next delivery was supposed to be to one of the houses across the road, but the Lintons there said theynever received their Observer that day. Nobody else on the other side of Wilmer Road received a newspaper that morning, either.
    The anonymous map-maker had also calculated that it would have been around 6:30 a.m. when Graham, who started at 6:00 a.m., got to that part of his round–daylight at that time of year, but still very early in the morning for any sort of traffic, including pedestrian. It was a Sunday, after all, the traditional morning for a lie-in after the excesses of Saturday night, and most of the customers said they were still in bed when their papers arrived.
    Michelle looked at the old black and white photos. They depicted a very different scene from the one she had visited yesterday, after she had talked to the Marshalls. In 1965, across Wilmer Road, there had been a grim row of old shops, all boarded up and ready for demolition, but today a modern DIY centre stood next to the new estate that replaced the old houses. The derelict shops looked like just the sort of place a kid might want to explore. Michelle checked the file to see if they had been searched. Of course they had. Dogs brought in, too. Not a trace.
    Michelle tucked some strands of blond hair, which had been tickling her cheek, behind her ears and chewed at the end of her