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recognised this one as meaning that the person in front of him – in this case, himself – was arsing about, wasting time, and generally testing his superior’s patience to the limit. Lamb, whose resemblance to George Formby seemed actually to be increasing as he grew older, took any deviation from by-the-book policing as a personal insult, and had long regarded him, Stratton, as the chief culprit. In his lighter moments, Stratton had often wondered if what his superior would really like would be for him to arrest himself, lock himself in a cell and beat himself up while he was at it.
    ‘Let me get this clear,’ said Lamb. ‘You’ve no idea where this woman’s body is – assuming that she is actually dead – and, more importantly, the baby’s disappeared and you have no clue as to where she is, and everyone you’ve spoken to, including his own mother, thinks that Davies is off his head. Besides which, the chances of Backhouse and his wife failing to notice that they are sharing a house with a corpse are – to say the least – slender.’
    ‘That’s about the size of it, sir.’
    ‘And Backhouse was a special constable, for God’s sake! If he says Davies is off his rocker … Incidentally, Stratton, I hope you’re treating him with a bit of respect.’
    ‘Of course, sir.’
    Lamb sighed again, looking more put-upon than ever. ‘Nothing’s ever straightforward with you, is it, Stratton?’
    ‘With respect, sir—’
    ‘Yes, yes, yes.’ Lamb waved a hand in irritable dismissal. ‘Let’s just get this sorted out as soon as possible, shall we? You say that the briefcase has been reported as stolen, so get Davies up here for that.’
    ‘Right away, sir.’
    ‘Wait. On second thoughts, I’ll send someone else to Merthyr Tydfil for Davies. You’re to search the house, and for God’s sake make sure you do it thoroughly.’
    ‘Now, sir?’
    ‘Yes, now!’
    ‘It’s going to be difficult in the garden, sir. In the dark.’
    ‘Take a bloody torch, man. I want a full report on my desk before Davies is brought in.’
    ‘Yes, sir.’ Stratton tried to compose his features into a semblance of eager obedience.
    ‘Don’t stand there making faces – get over to Marlborough Street for the warrant.’
    Going down the corridor to collect Ballard, Stratton relieved his feelings by singing ‘When I’m Cleaning Windows’ in a voice that he judged to be almost – but not quite – audible in his superior’s office.
    Having secured an emergency warrant from the magistrate’s court, Stratton and Ballard made their way back to Paradise Street. By the time they reached number ten, it was after nine o’clock. ‘Let’s hope the poor sods aren’t having an early night,’ said Stratton grimly as they waited, stamping their feet in the cold, for the door to be answered.
    When Backhouse answered the door he was dressed, as before, in a collarless shirt, and trousers held up in the old-fashioned way with braces and a belt. He did the bad ventriloquist thing with hismouth, then took off his pebble glasses and polished them on a handkerchief, blinking myopically. Behind him, in the gloom of the hallway, stood Mrs Backhouse, who had taken off her overall to reveal a dark-green frock.
    ‘Sorry to call back at this late hour, Mr Backhouse. We have a warrant to search the premises.’
    Backhouse jammed his glasses back on his nose and stared at the two of them. ‘Now?’
    ‘I’m afraid so, sir.’ Stratton produced the paper. ‘May we come in? We’re anxious to get this matter cleared up – as I’m sure you are.’
    ‘It’s all very unpleasant.’ Backhouse grimaced and rubbed the small of his back with both hands. ‘My wife’s nerves … she was just about to take a sleeping pill and go off to bed.’
    Behind him, Edna Backhouse nodded in tearful confirmation of this.
    ‘We’ll be as quick as we can, I assure you,’ said Stratton soothingly.
    They started at the top of the house, in the two rooms which