It looked like the cavalry had been called out to welcome Scotland Yard’s fair-haired boy.

“Jack Makepeace. Sergeant, I should say. Thames Valley CID.” Makepeace smiled, yellowed teeth showing under the sandy bristle of mustache. “Nice to meet you, sir.” He engulfed Kincaid’s hand for an instant in a beefy paw, then took Kincaid’s case and swung it into the panda’s boot. “Climb in, and we can talk as we go.”

The car’s interior smelled of stale cigarettes and wet wool. Kincaid cracked his window, then shifted a bit in his seat so that he could see his companion. A fringe of hair the same color as the mustache, freckles extending from face into shiny scalp, a heavy nose with the disproportionate look that comes of having been smashed-all in all not a prepossessing face, but the pale blue eyes were shrewd, and the voice unexpectedly soft for a man of his bulk.

Makepeace drove competently on the rain-slick streets, snaking his way south and west until they crossed the M40 and left the last terraced houses behind. He glanced at Kincaid, ready to divert some of his attention from the road.

“Tell me about it, then,” Kincaid said.

“What do you know?”

“Not much, and I’d just as soon you start from scratch, if you don’t mind.”

Makepeace looked at him, opened his mouth as if to ask a question, then closed it again. After a moment he said, “Okay. Daybreak this morning the Hambleden lockkeeper, one Perry Smith, opens the sluicegate to fill the lock for an early traveler, and a body rushes through it into the lock. Gave him a terrible shock, as you can imagine. He called Marlow-they sent a panda car and the medics.” He paused as he downshifted into an intersection, then concentrated on overtaking an ancient Morris Minor that was creeping its way up the gradient. “They fished him out, then when it became obvious that the poor chappie was not going to spew up the canal and open his eyes, they called us.”