'Good old George,' said Dalziel. 'Perk of being a DI, Wieldy. Start taking an interest in your promotion exams and you could be up there in the dry and warm.'

Wield shrugged indifferently, his features showing as little reaction to horizontal sleet as the crags of Scafell.

He knew you didn't learn things from books, you learned them from people. Like that other George, Creed. He'd pay a lot more attention to his weather forecasts from now on in! Also he knew for a fact that not all the elevated rank in the world was going to keep the Fat Man dry and warm.

He said, 'Yes, sir. I expect you'll be wanting to view the scene before you head up there yourself.'

It was a simple statement of fact not a challenging question.

Dalziel sighed and said, 'If that's what you expect, Wieldy, I expect I'd better do it. Get me waterproofs out of the boot, will you, else I'll be sodden afore I start.'

Watching Dalziel getting into oilskins and wellies through the streaming glass, Wield was reminded of a film he'd seen of Houdini wriggling out of his bonds while submerged in a huge glass jar.

The car gave one last convulsive shake and the Fat Man was free.

'Right,' he said. 'Where's it at?'

'This way,' said Wield.

At this moment Nature, with the perfect timing due to the entry of a major figure on her stage, shut off the wind machine for a moment and let the curtain of sleet shimmer to transparency.

'Bloody hell,' said Dalziel with the incredulous amazement of a Great War general happening on a battlefield. 'They had Dutch elm disease or what?'

On either side of the driveway a broad swathe of woodland had been ripped out and this fillet of desolation which presumably ran all the way round the house was bounded by two fences, the outer a simple hedge of barbed wire, the inner much more sophisticated, a twelve-feet-high security screen with floodlights and closed-circuit TV cameras every twenty yards.