“How many people live in Tripletree?” he said, looking about him in some surprise.

“Twenty-six thousand at the last count.” Werry gave him a humorous glance. “We still call it a city, though. When the provinces all became autonomous and got their own governments they wanted to be as much like real honest-to-God countries as they could, so they didn’t issue charters for anything but cities. There aren’t any villages or towns in Alberta. Just cities. Hundreds of them.” He laughed and flicked up the peak of his cap, his bonhomie apparently fully restored.

“I see.” Hasson tried to digest the information. “And how many men in your department?”

“Actually on the street — four. That was half of my force you saw disappearing into Ronnie’s diner. The other half handles air traffic.”

“It doesn’t seem enough men.”

“I manage — and the job carries the official rank of reeve. If I transfer to a big city it’ll be as reeve.”

Hasson tried to visualise ways of running an effective police force with only four men, but his imagination balked at the task. He was on the point of asking further questions when Werry slowed the car down and turned into a short avenue of white- painted frame houses. The snow had not been cleared from it, as in the main thoroughfare, and it lined the street in fudge- coloured ridges. Hasson’s heart began to pound as he realized they had reached Werry’s home and he was dose to the meeting with his family. The car crunched to a halt about halfway along the avenue, outside a house which was partly hidden by several young fir trees.

“This is it,” Werry said cheerfully. “Rob, you’ll have your feet under the table in no time.”