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it were a turnstile at a football ground – just brushed it aside and, as they did so, said things like, “Don’t get in the way, you selfish old bugger.” Some of them actually shook the dead hand, and asked him how he was getting on. They’d known the man while he was alive – they’d been his comrades, for God’s sake – but now that he was dead, he was no more than a comic prop for them.’
    Perhaps he was, Blackstone thought – but perhaps treating him as a comic prop was the only way they had of dealing with his death.
    â€˜Why are you telling me this?’ he asked aloud.
    â€˜So that you’ll understand what this war – more than any which has preceded it – has done to the common soldier. He feels no compassion – not even for his own kind. So why should he care who killed Lieutenant Fortesque? And even if he knew, why should he bother to tell you?’
    They turned on to the fire trench. The platoon occupying it was lined up in strict military order, under the watchful eye of their lieutenant and sergeant.
    â€˜If an attack comes, it will either be at dawn or dusk, and that’s why we’re always ready at those times,’ Carstairs told Blackstone.
    If he’d been Captain Huxton, he might have added an oafish, ‘I know these things, and you don’t – and your lack of knowledge about what goes on here is yet another reason that you’ll never find your killer.’
    But Carstairs, being more subtle than Huxton, knew there was no need to add it, because it was obvious enough, Blackstone thought.
    â€˜None of those men will have been here the morning that Lieutenant Fortesque was murdered, will they?’ the inspector asked.
    â€˜No,’ Carstairs replied. ‘The survivors of that platoon will have been rotated after the offensive. They’re most probably in the village of St Denis.’
    As they approached the platoon, the lieutenant turned and saluted.
    â€˜Anything wrong, sir?’ he asked with all the anxiety of a young man who does not fear death, but lives in perpetual trepidation of doing something which does not conform to the correct military code.
    â€˜Nothing at all wrong, Toby,’ Carstairs assured him. He glanced at the platoon. ‘Your men are very well turned-out, under the circumstances. You’re doing a splendid job.’
    â€˜Thank you, sir,’ the lieutenant said, with a barely disguised sigh of relief.
    Carstairs looked up at the lightening sky. ‘Any minute now,’ he said to the lieutenant.
    â€˜Any minute now, sir,’ the lieutenant agreed.
    The stillness of the air was suddenly shattered by loud explosions from both the British artillery and the German guns.
    Blackstone, who had been under fire more times than he cared to remember, still found it hard to believe that anything could generate this amount of noise.
    â€˜The men call this the Morning Hate,’ Carstairs said, shouting to be heard above the din. ‘It normally lasts for about ten minutes.’
    â€˜And does it achieve anything?’ Blackstone bawled back.
    â€˜A few lucky shots might produce some casualties, and it certainly shreds some of the weaker men’s nerves – but apart from that, it doesn’t achieve a damn thing!’ Carstairs replied. He turned to the lieutenant, and tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Could I have your periscope for a moment, Toby?’
    The lieutenant handed the periscope to Carstairs, and Carstairs handed it to Blackstone.
    â€˜Why don’t you take a look at the world outside, Mr Blackstone?’ the captain suggested.
    Blackstone raised the periscope and looked out on to No Man’s Land. It was the barbed wire fence he saw first – a complex twisted tangle of wicked spikes, stretched tautly between strong posts and gleaming in the early light.
    He closed his eyes for a moment, and imagined himself dashing across No Man’s