The first thunderous crash of the wrecking ball shook the ground, and some of the men turned their heads to watch the destruction. Again and again the ball struck, startling the crows and causing a mass exodus from the nearby trees. Even the dog abandoned its hungry vigilance and slunk away.

Dust rose in an ugly cloud above the forlorn ruins as the crane backed away, its morbid job completed. The men reluctantly put away their flasks and prepared to begin the massive cleanup.

As they moved toward the rubble the dog reappeared, darting ahead of them with its nose in the air as if chasing an enticing odor. It leapt over a pile of bricks and began scrabbling madly at a heap of mangled wood and plaster.

One of the men at the head of the group shouted, and bent to pick up a lump of plaster to throw at it. Then he paused, his arm in midair. The rest of the men crowded behind him, staring with disbelief at what the dog had uncovered.

The man in front shuddered, then said quietly, “I think we’d better get the bobbies up here quick.”

Someone else called out, “Get that flipping dog off the poor bugger.”

“Not that it matters now,” the first man muttered. “That poor sod’s a goner. Looks like someone’s put a bullet right through his bloody head.”

CHAPTER 3

Elizabeth arrived at the station just as Sid, George’s intrepid partner, was leaving. He greeted her with his usual good humor, though she could tell he was a little put out about something.

“I take it George is inside?” she asked him, nodding at the small brick building that once housed horses and still bore the faint aroma of their presence.

“Yes, your ladyship, he is indeed,” Sid said grimly.

Being well used to the feuding between the two constables, Elizabeth refrained from asking about the problem. Both men had been retired for several years when the outbreak of war and the need for younger men in His Majesty’s Service had removed the entire police force from Sitting Marsh.