'Oh, yes, sir,' said Hector, producing his notebook and coughing discreetly behind his hand. 'I came on duty at six P.M. on Friday, November…'

'No, no,' said Pascoe. It was, of course, Hector's fondness for the orotund constabulary style which had driven Wield so far towards telegraphese. 'From when you got here. And in your own words, please.'

'These are my own words, sir,' said Hector, brandishing his notebook with the beginnings of indignation.

'Yes, I know. But you're not in the witness-box. I mean, just talk to me as you'd talk to your… to your…' Pascoe tailed away helplessly. Friends? Father? However he ended his sentence it was going to sound ridiculous.

'Self,' interposed Sergeant Wield. His eyes met Pascoe's and the Inspector had to resist an urge to giggle, an urge he quelled by recollecting that a particularly unpleasant murder had occurred a few feet above his head not very long before.

The thought also made him feel guilty about his sense of grievance at being called out.

Am I getting callous, or what? he wondered.

'Go on, son,' he said to Hector.

'Well, sir, when I got here, I found Mrs Frostick and a lot of other people…'

'Hold on. Who's Mrs Frostick?'

'Mrs Frostick is Mr Deeks's daughter, sir. Mr Deeks is the deceased, of this abode.'

Pascoe looked sharply at Hector, hoping to see the gleam of intelligent life in his eyes which would mean he was sending him up. But all was earnest blankness.

'And these other people? Who were they?'

'Neighbours mainly, I think, sir.'

'Think? You've got their names and addresses, haven't you?'

Hector's head sank a little further between his shoulders. Perhaps it was fully retractable, like a tortoise's.

'Some of them, sir,' he said. 'It was all a bit confused. A lot of people had come rushing in when Mrs Frostick called for help…'