Even with that precaution the annual death toll from falling objects was unacceptably high, and there was no country in the world where the breaking of that particular law did not bring severe mandatory penalties. All Hasson’s instincts told him Morlacher had just flown with the gun, or was about to fly, and he felt a profound relief over the fact that the law enforcement task was not his. It was work for a fit, hard man in full possession of himself.

“Are you getting out?” Werry said, again glancing at his watch.

“Can’t see anything from in here.” Hasson pushed open the passenger door, swung his feet sideways and froze as his back locked itself into immobility with a sensation like bone grinding on dry bone. He caught his breath and began trying different grips on the doorframe as he struggled with the engineering problem of how to hoist his skeleton into an upright position. Werry got out at the other side without noticing, adjusted his cap, checked to see how his gleaming boots were faring on the snow, tugged his tunic straight at the back, and approached Morlacher with careful tread.

“Mornin’, Buck,” he said. “Going to do a little duck shooting?”

“Go away, Al — I’m busy.” Morlacher continued staring upwards, his eyes hidden behind chips of pale blue sky. He was a large, overweight man with copper-coloured hair and a triangular patch of bright pink on each cheek. His lips were drawn back, exposing teeth which seemed to be inhumanly thick and strong, with heavy molars in place of incisors, Hasson immediately felt afraid of him.

“I can see you’re busy,” Werry said pleasantly. “Just wondered what you’re busy at.”

“What’s the matter with you?” A look of impatience appeared on Morlacher’s face as he lowered his head to stare at Werry. “You know I’m doing the work you should be doing — if you’d any balls. Why don’t you just get back into your kiddycar and leave me to it? All right?”