Pascoe was abashed. Hamblyn was looking at him with faint distaste.

'Let's step into the garden,’ said Backhouse, like a kindly host desirous of stirring his guest's digestive juices before lunch.

They went through the dining-room, passing the chalked body-outlines and ringed bloodstains, and out of the french window into the garden, halting near the sundial.

I'm really getting the treatment, thought Pascoe. What does he expect from me? Colin's present address?

'The Hopkinses' car was in the garage, the visitors' car on the driveway,' said Backhouse. 'This is the arrangement you'd expect and this is what the few people we've found who passed early last evening saw.'

'They couldn't see into the garage,' objected Pascoe.

'True,' said Backhouse. 'Now, here's what happened, or what possibly happened supported by a strong scaffolding of what did happen. There was a lot of broken glass scattered around here. Did you notice? From a whisky bottle, that was easy enough to establish. Were they hard drinkers, your friends?'

'Only on occasions,' answered Pascoe, recognizing the start of interrogation. 'And the occasion rarely merited the expense of scotch. But that was years ago. Things change.'

'Yes. Of course. Well, we've got a thorough house-to-house on now, but the first place my men called was the Eagle and Child, the second the Queen Anne. That's where she bought it.'

'The whisky?'

'That's right,' said Backhouse pensively. 'At about quarter to nine last night. Curious that. The Eagle and Child's nearer. No matter. The landlord's wife, who sold it to her at the off-licence counter, didn't see the car, but heard it drive away. She reckons it sounded more like the Mini-Cooper than the Hopkinses' Cortina.'

'A good ear,' commented Pascoe, watching a pair of thrushes which had decided the policemen were harmless, and were drilling for worms.