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station the trendy whisper was a raucous shout. It was a disaster, and no time to race back and change. He huddled himself into a dark corner.
       P.C. Stringer, the duty desk man, returned to his post replete with bacon, beans, tea, and two slices. With his honest, open, freshly scrubbed schoolboy's face sur mounted with dark curly hair, he looked more like a sixth former than a policeman. He smiled at Clive with an air of helpful inquiry.
       "I'm attending to the gentleman," hissed the sergeant from one corner of his mouth while carrying on his phone conversation with the other. The young constable shrugged good-naturedly and settled down to peck out a report on an ancient black Underwood.
       At last the sergeant slammed down the phone and rubbed a sore ear. He turned to Clive with almost obsequious politeness.
       "Can I help you, sir?"
       It occurred to Clive that the sergeant was mistaking him for someone important. It also occurred to him that the sergeant wouldn't take too kindly to the knowledge that he had been abasing himself before the lowest of the low, a raw detective constable whose forehead still bore a ridge from a helmet. A quick explanation was vital.
       "Actually, Sergeant, I'm Detective Constable - "
       On the first syllable of "constable" the sergeant's smile froze solid: it shriveled to a tight glitter on the second and vanished chillingly on the last. The expression "his face went ugly" could have been invented for this moment. Clive plowed bravely on . . .
       " - Detective Constable Barnard. I have to report to Superintendent Mullett at nine o'clock, sir."
       So this was Barnard. This is the young bastard who's going to make it because of his uncle while people with seventeen years bloody service but without influential relatives . . . Wells twisted his neck to wall clock. A minute before nine. Pity. It would have been a pleasure to bawl him out for un-punctuality.
       Another blast of wind ruffled the papers on the desk as a figure in military uniform hurtled through.
       "Meeting?" he barked.
       "Third door on the left, sir." The man was already on his way. Wells returned his attention to his victim.
       "Oh, yes. Barnard . . . I remember. The Chief Constable's nephew, isn't it? I should have recognized the broken nose."
       Clive tightened his lips, said nothing, and stared at a spot just above the sergeant's balding head. Wells moved his gaze downward . . . and then he saw it - 
       "Good God! Where on earth did you get that suit?"
       Clive flushed. "In London, Sergeant."
       "London? The last time I saw a suit like that Max Miller was wearing it. How much did you pay for it?"
       A deep breath. "£107, Sergeant."
       The sergeant's jaw thudded. "£107! For that? Take my tip, Barnard, don't wear it in the daylight. There's some very nervous people about." Shoulders shaking at his own witticism and his good humor restored, Wells jerked a thumb toward a polished wooden bench and bade Clive sit.
    "The Divisional Commander's tied up at the moment. I'll tell you when he's free."
       Clive sat. The bench was hard. You were not meant to be comfortable sitting in a police station. Above his head was the Colorado Beetle Indentikit, on the opposite wall a blackboard in a wood frame. It was headed: DENTON DIVISION - ROAD ACCIDENTS. The board contained columns in which were chalked the monthly running totals of accidents and fatalities in the division as compared with the previous year.
       Clive sat and waited. The bench got harder, his suit louder. Then an icy blast as the swing doors crashed back on their hinges and a scruffy individual in a dirty mac, un-pressed trousers, and a long trailing maroon scarf burst in. He was in his late forties, with a pink, weather-beaten farmer's face flecked with freckles, warm blue eyes, and a freckled balding head, the pate surrounded by fluffy light brown hair. He went straight over to the board, picked up the chalk, and