On the stairs he felt dizzy and had to pause, leaning heavily on the banister. It was certainly in hand, the business of finding Colin. But the searchers' motives were far from humane.

'You OK, Sergeant?' said Backhouse from the foot of the stairs. He sounded more concerned than the doctor had done.

'Yes sir,' said Pascoe, descending.

'Miss Soper asleep?'

'I think so.'

Backhouse looked closely at him, his thin scholarly face solicitous, assessing.

'I'm going back to the cottage. The lab boys should be finished now. I wondered if you felt up to coming with me. I'd appreciate your assistance.'

The ghost of a grin flitted involuntarily over Pascoe's lips at this semi-formal courtesy. Fat Dalziel, his own superintendent, must have missed out on this part of the senior officers' training course.

'Certainly, sir,' he said.

Some minor telepathy must have operated. As they climbed into the waiting car, Backhouse said, 'I've been talking to Mr Dalziel on the phone.'

'Oh.'

'He was naturally sorry to hear what had happened.'

Naturally. But I bet the sod didn't make the normal polite distressed noises. Backhouse was doing a translation job.

'He says you're too important to be spared past the week-end, but I would appreciate what help you can give me in that time.'

Appreciate again. He was being given kid-glove treatment. You didn't have to be a detective to work out why. But let them say it. He was damned if he was going to broach the matter.

Them. With surprise Pascoe realized that he was thinking of the police as them.

'Stop here,' said Backhouse to his driver. The car pulled up outside a high-roofed, pebble-dashed building with narrow, church-like windows. A well-kept notice advertised that this was Thornton Lacey Village Hall. Beneath the gold and black lettering a typewritten sheet supplied the menu of activities that could be sampled in the hall during the current week. Last night, for instance, the Village Amenities Committee had met. And tonight the Old Time Dancing Group was scheduled to waltz, fox-trot, two-step, and polka its way down Memory Lane. But the light fantastic would have to be tripped somewhere else, thought Pascoe as he followed Backhouse into the building.