Dalziel said, 'Likely you're wondering, constable, how come after so many years of going steady, me and Tankie finally fell out.'

Oh God, thought Pascoe. Completely brain dead!

'No, sir,' he said brightly. 'I wasn't wondering that.'

'And you call yourself a detective! Motive, lad, that's the key. Once you've got a hold on that, the rest'll not be long in coming, as the bishop said to the actress.'

'Stop here,' said Trotter.

The lane had widened into a small overgrown paddock in front of a cottage which was more Gothic than picturesque. True, round the door there were roses rambling and honeysuckles suckling, but they looked more carnivorous than vegetarian, as if their ambition were to devour the house, which indeed slumped sideways like a stricken deer, only supported by a roofless barn on the left-hand side.

'Blow the horn!' ordered Trotter.

Pascoe blew the horn.

The cottage door opened and a woman came out, rubbing floured hands on a flowered apron. It was a scene so rustically domestic that Pascoe thought: it's a wind-up. Wield and the rest of the CID boys are waiting inside with a birthday cake for Fat Andy. But he didn't really believe it, even before the woman stepped back inside and re-emerged with an under-and-over shotgun in her hands.

'Out,' ordered Trotter. 'Shoot the boy if he tries anything.'

The woman nodded as if she'd been told her guests took sugar in their tea.

'Hello, Jude,' said Dalziel. 'Heard you'd gone off for a trip. Nice place you found. Bet it costs more for a week than a fortnight. This boy you may have to shoot is Detective Constable Pascoe. This here's Judith, Tankie's sister. Twins, would you credit it? She got the beauty, he got the brawn. What happened to the brains, God alone knows, and He's not telling us, is he, Jude?'

A smile touched the woman's lips, acting like a tiny light to reveal the true beauty of her features. But her eyes confirmed her twinship. They were the same unyielding grey discs as her brother's.