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the witchcraft, but not quite.
    “A bunch of kids playing games in the foundations of a house,” he said aloud to himself in his office. “What sort of games? And bombs falling all around? Do I believe this stuff?” Nevertheless, he studied this rather fuzzy photocopy of the children poking their heads out of a muddy hole and decided he had better talk to some of these people, all of them as old as the hills now, of course.
    He would shortly have to pay a second visit to Loughton, take a look at the workmen and the supervising archaeologist, who were digging away in search of more remains under Warlock. A waste of time, he thought. Who cared after all these years? Pity this MaureenBatchelor didn’t give an email address, though she did offer a phone number. A landline, he noted, not a mobile. But what could you expect of someone of her age?
    He spoke to George Batchelor. Quell was always willing to admit he had been wrong, and he had certainly been wrong about this onetime builder and his wife. They sounded a lot younger than they must be. They gave him names of some of the other people who had been children in the “tunnels.” Having an idea that you should never, if you could help it, speak of death or even “passing away” in the presence of anyone over sixty, Quell didn’t ask how many of them were still alive. He didn’t have to. George Batchelor equally serenely told him of his dead brother, Robert (the photographer), his dead sister, Moira, and of the still-living Alan Norris, Rosemary Norris, Michael Winwood, Daphne Furness, his brothers Norman and Stanley, and Bill Johnson.
    “I think I should see all of them.”
    George was beginning to enjoy this. “If you’re coming to see me, shall I ask all the others round at the same time?”
    “If it’s not putting you out,” said Quell.
    “The ones that are still in the land of the living,” said George.
    He had been bored out of his mind lazing about with his leg up. Now it looked as if he might have a real part to play in this investigation, all these old friends round, the police taking a real interest. He would show them his photographs. It would be a tonic for him. Maybe he could find Michael Winwood or Stanley would. Stanley always kept up with people over the years.

    A SMALL CROWD had gathered round his car. Spot was sitting in the driving seat with his forepaws on the steering wheel. Sighs of “Aah” and “Sweet” came from the shoppers who had stopped to stare. Unwisely, Stanley had parked outside the police station on a yellow line, thinking he would only be a minute, but as he approached thecar, a uniformed PC preceded him, observed Spot without a hint of a smile, and told Stanley to “get that dog down from there” and move off. He was lucky, he added, that the PC would take no further steps. Stanley put Spot in the back, laid the flowers he had bought for Maureen on the passenger seat, and drove off up to York Hill and Carisbrooke.
    Stanley always brought women flowers. Like his brother Norman, he was known as a ladies’ man, though, according to his friends and neighbours, there was nothing wrong. He bought more flowers for his wife than for any other woman. Stanley always talked to his dogs and he talked to this one, telling him as they got out of the car that he had better behave as a policeman was coming, and a more powerful one than the PC. Spot wagged his tail. Maureen might have had something to say about Spot’s presence but was mollified by the huge bunch of daffodils and narcissi with which Stanley presented her.
    “Daphne here yet?”
    “No one’s here but you and of course Norman,” said Maureen. “George can put his foot to the ground now, so mind you tell him how well he’s doing.”
    “Will do. This is Spot.”
    “So I gathered. He won’t pee on the floor, will he?”
    “Certainly not. He’s already house-trained.”
    They were still in the hallway when the doorbell rang. It was the Norrises and Detective