Clive sighed. So it was out in the open, the cause of the hostility. He might have known he'd have trouble with the rustics. In London it had been treated as a big joke. The odd bit of leg-pulling, but they'd known he'd worked his way up to the dizzy heights of detective constable from scratch, expecting and getting no favors. But out here in turnip country he was the brash, spoiled kid from the big city, the one with the influential relative.

"Are you referring to the Chief Constable?" he asked innocently.

Simms feigned surprise. "Oh, is he your uncle? That would account for the similarity of the names, of course…"

"And for the fact that we're acting as your bloody chauffeur," added Jordan, sounding his horn at a dog that was taking its time crossing the road. "We couldn't expect the Chief Constable's nephew to take the common bus, of course…"

"Let's get this straight," snapped Clive hotly. "I never asked to be met, and if you think he gives me any favors, then I can assure you I'd have asked to be posted to anywhere but this one-eyed stinking dump."

A pause, during which tension crackled. The two uniformed men exchanged glances. "One-eyed stinking dump?" said Simms. "You must have been here before." He offered around his cigarettes and the atmosphere thawed slightly. "You're quite right, Clive," he continued, and Clive noted with pleasure the use of his first name, "this place is a dump… in fact it's a dump and a half. It was a little dump before they started to develop it, now it's a big dump."

"It's not so bad," said Jordan, as they waited for the traffic lights to change, although there was no other vehicle in sight. The road was deserted. It was not only criminals who preferred to stay indoors in this weather.

"I understand I'll be working under Detective Inspector Allen," remarked Clive, trying to balance some ash on the overflowing ashtray. "What's he like?"