The large musty-smelling room was full of activity. Shirt-sleeved policemen were arranging tables and two Post Office men were fixing up telephones. All the lights were on to supplement the meagre ration of sunlight the windows let in.

The station's too small,' said Backhouse. 'Especially if this turns into a large scale operation. Which I hope it won't.'

He glanced sideways at Pascoe, then looked quickly away. A uniformed inspector came to meet them.

'Anything new?' Backhouse greeted him.

'Just a couple of things, sir.'

The inspector glanced assessingly at Pascoe, then led Backhouse away to the far end of the hall. Pascoe thought of following. He was desperately keen to discover what was going on but also very conscious of his ambiguous position. He was merely a witness, he had no official standing here.

'What the hell's going on here?'

The interrupter was a big man, barrel-chested and strong-jawed. He was wearing a polo-necked sweater and jodhpurs. Pascoe felt sorry for the horse that would have to carry that bulk which he estimated at fifteen stone. It was all pretty solid stuff. The man was in his forties but still a long way from turning to flab.

'Well? Come on, man. Who's in charge?'

Backhouse's attention had been caught and he came across to meet the man.

'Good morning, sir,' he said. 'I'm Detective-Superintendent Backhouse. And you…?'

'Angus Pelman. What the hell are you up to?' asked the man in a rather more moderate tone.