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the afternoon.’
    â€˜Why’s that?’ Paniatowski asked, before she could stop herself. ‘Have you got a date?’
    Rutter looked at her with uncharacteristic coldness.
    â€˜As a matter of fact, I have, in a manner of speaking,’ he said. ‘I’m interviewing nannies for Louisa.’ He turned towards Woodend. ‘You remember, I cleared it with you yesterday, sir.’
    â€˜Aye, now I think about it, so you did,’ Woodend agreed.
    Paniatowski looked mortified. ‘I was speaking well out of turn,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry, Bob.’
    â€˜Forget it,’ Rutter said, but the tone in which he spoke the words wasn’t even halfway to being forgiving.
    â€˜What else should we be lookin’ for, Constable Beresford?’ Woodend asked, cutting through the suddenly chill atmosphere with a reminder that they were all still police officers.
    â€˜I … er …’ Beresford began. ‘I suppose we should be looking for a motive for the murder, sir.’
    â€˜Aye, we most certainly should,’ Woodend agreed. ‘An’ let’s hope an’ pray that Terry Pugh was a popular feller – because the last thing we need is a victim whose death makes most of the people who knew him want to throw a party.’ He drained the rest of his pint. ‘Right, does anyone have questions before we get stuck into the investigation?’
    Beresford raised his hand, then realized what he was doing, and dropped it again, embarrassedly.
    Woodend pretended not to have seen the gesture. ‘Any questions at all?’ he said.
    â€˜I’ve got a question, sir,’ Beresford told him, and this time he managed to keep his hand below table level.
    â€˜Let’s hear it, then,’ Woodend suggested.
    â€˜How are we going to investigate a murder without the people who we’re questioning in the course of that investigation knowing that’s what we’re doing?’ Beresford wondered.
    â€˜That’s a fair point, Colin,’ Woodend conceded. ‘You’ll just have to tell them that what you’re doin’ is tryin’ to find a motive for Terry Pugh decidin’ to kill himself.’
    â€˜Aren’t they going to find it rather strange that the CID would concern themselves with a matter like that, sir?’ Beresford wondered.
    â€˜They’ll most probably find it completely barmy.’
    â€˜Well, then …’
    â€˜But they’ll answer your questions anyway, because most people still think it’s in their best interest to co-operate with bobbies – even if the bobbies do seem a bit doolally.’
    â€˜How long do you think we’ll have to keep this deception going?’ Bob Rutter asked.
    â€˜There you’ve got me,’ Woodend admitted. ‘It’s entirely in Henry Marlowe’s hands. Until he either decides that the decent thing to do is to come clean, or is
forced by circumstances
to come clean – which is far the more likely of the two – we’ll just have to play the game he wants us to play.’ The chief inspector checked his watch. ‘Let’s get crackin’ then. I’ll see you all back here at six o’clock.’

Five
    T he house where the dead man had lived was a modest semi-detached, the kind of place that a skilled working man could take out a mortgage on and confidently expect to eventually own outright – as long, that was, as he was prepared to accept as much overtime as his employer offered him, and could resist the temptation of falling into one of those vices that were the curse of the working class.
    It looked more-than-decently cared for, Woodend decided, examining it from the street. The front door and the rest of the woodwork had all been recently painted, the pebble-dashed walls were well-maintained, and there was no sign of vegetation sprouting out of the guttering. There was a small garden in front of the house,