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‘Havin’ said that, of course, I am assumin’ that they’ll already have done the basic spadework for us.’
    The chief constable nodded, and switched back into press conference mode. ‘They have indeed done the basic spadework – if not a great deal more than that,’ he said. ‘In fact, I think I can say without fear of contradiction that, under my guidance, they’ve done everything that can be expected from a modern police force.’
    He should have let his pit bull of a sergeant rag at the chief constable’s pomposity a little longer, Woodend decided.
    â€˜Yes, I’m sure you have done everything that can be expected from a modern police force,’ he said, then paused for a second, before continuing, ‘except, of course, make an arrest.’
    â€˜Yes, apart from that,’ the chief constable admitted.
    â€˜What can you tell us about the progress of your investigation so far?’ Woodend asked.
    The chief constable laughed, awkwardly. ‘I naturally don’t have all the details at my fingertips.’
    Well, he bloody well should have, Woodend thought.
    â€˜A broad outline will do,’ he said, aloud.
    â€˜As I understand it, Lilly Dawson left the market at the usual time, and never arrived home,’ the chief constable told him.
    â€˜When was she last sighted?’
    The chief constable waved his hands in the air. ‘I couldn’t say, offhand, but I expect it will be in the reports.’
    He expected it would be in the reports! If the rest of the Mid Lancs Constabulary was as useless as the man who was supposed to be running the whole show, then they were in deep shit, Woodend thought.
    He stood up, and held out his hand. ‘Thank you for sparing us so much of your valuable time, sir. You’ve been a great help,’ he said, hoping that he’d managed to squeeze at least a semblance of sincerity into the words.

FOUR
    I f there’d been just his mam and dad at home, when Woodend snatched half an hour to go pay a visit, the three of them would have sat around the kitchen table and drunk tea out of thick blue-and-white striped mugs. But, as chance would have it, his parents already had visitors – in the shape of an ageing couple who clearly still expected him to address them as ‘Auntie’ May and ‘Uncle’ George, even though they were not relations – and so the whole event had to be transferred to the front parlour, which was normally only used for christenings, weddings, funerals and birthday parties.
    It soon became obvious to Woodend that it wasn’t chance at all that these non-relatives were there, but rather as a result of their hearing, through the grapevine, that Mr and Mrs Woodend’s only child was back in town, and in charge of the most sensational murder case to hit Whitebridge in living memory. ‘Auntie’ May, especially, was eager to hear all the gory details, and seemed most put out when Woodend explained that, at the moment, he knew little more than they would have read in the papers.
    Mam let the pretend aunt and uncle continue their fruitless interrogation for the best part of fifteen minutes, then stood up and said, ‘Well, we mustn’t detain you any longer, May an’ George. I expect there’s lots of things you’ll need to have got done before the day’s over.’
    â€˜Well . . .’ ‘Auntie’ May began to protest disappointedly.
    â€˜I’ll show you to the door,’ Mam said firmly. ‘Drop around any time. You’re always welcome.’
    As Woodend watched his mother relentlessly shepherding her visitors to the front door, he found it hard to restrain a chuckle. This was vintage Mam, he thought – as polite as could be, but as immovable as the Rock of Gibraltar.
    While Mam shooed the visitors out into the street, Woodend took the opportunity to glance around the parlour.
    Had it always seemed so