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didn’t know what had happened to her. She hadn’t been around for years and he couldn’t even remember what she’d looked like. The daughter must not live at home because the farmer lived alone these days. He’d seen him once or twice around the town on cattle market days, wearing the same blue cotton dungarees and tweed coat he hadfavoured years before, tied around the middle with orange nylon baling twine.
    Korpanski screamed through red traffic lights, cursing as an aged driver in a Morris 1000 seemed paralysed before the kerfuffle and straddled the crossing, finally moving forwards so the squad car could inch through.
    Korpanski resumed his dragnet of information about Prospect Farm and its inhabitants. About ten years ago the farm had shrunk as houses had encroached on its land, emphasising its scruffiness. Korpanski winced. Fran would have loved to have lived in one of the executive-type dwellings but the houses on the estate were out of the pocket-range of a mere detective sergeant. All the same, Korpanski had witnessed the area’s progress through the years with interest. Each time he’d found himself in the area, he’d driven round the estate, dreaming, noting that the contrast wasn’t simply manifested by the buildings; the gap between the yuppie types who inhabited the mock-Tudor houses and the crumbling farm seemed to be widening.
    And now this.
    He took the turn sharply into the Prospect Farm Estate, screeching to a halt in front of Number 1.
    Kathleen Weston was waiting for him in the drive. He saw a distressed woman in her forties, dressed in a zip-up sweater and faded jeans. Her face was green, her arms wrapped tightly around her, hugging herself as she rocked to and fro on a pair of trainers. Korpanski waited as the second car pulled up behind him. This,he thought, with a touch of wry humour, needed a woman’s touch.
    And Piercy was missing until tomorrow morning. Korpanski smiled to himself. She’d be furious at missing all the drama. He made a sudden face. Because for that matter, Levin was away, too. The most important thing to ascertain now would be cause of death. Natural causes, they could all go home. But if there were any grounds for suspicion… Well – no problem. He could manage this one for the first twenty-four hours at least. Korpanski gave a little grin of confidence to himself. Even up to Inspector Piercy’s standards.
    He climbed out of the car. ‘Mrs Weston?’
    She nodded.
    ‘You rang us?’
    Again she nodded. The two WPCs stood either side of her, ready for hysterics, but Kathleen Weston looked calmer now, keeping herself tightly reined in for the police presence.
    ‘I think it’s the farmer,’ she said in a tense voice, lifting haunted eyes to his face. She would not forget what she had seen even when she closed her eyes. It was as though the scene had been painted on the inside of her eyelids. ‘I think he’s been dead a while. The smell,’ she said, her eyes flickering along the road as she tried to keep them open. ‘I’ve noticed the smell for a few days.’
    ‘Let’s take a look, shall we?’ Korpanski shot a meaningful glance at WPC Dawn Critchlow. However brave Mrs Weston was being he knew this pale, deadfish look of shock. She took the hint and moved towards Mrs Weston. ‘Come with me.’
    Kathleen Weston led them through a tall oak gate into the back garden then glanced ahead to the wall, which was the boundary between her land and the farm. The first thing Korpanski noticed was the irregularity caused by the missing copestone. The second was the smell.
    They call it the smell of death.
    Korpanski and DC King left Dawn Critchlow to care for the shaken woman and walked carefully up the garden path, taking note of the orderly garden and the lavender hedge, which did little to mask the scent. He carried on, towards the boundary, took one look over the wall and, mirroring Kathleen Weston’s response, almost threw up.
    The crumpled figure of the farmer lay