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sir.’ The PC handed Hardcastle the telegraph form.
    â€˜Ask Sergeant Marriott to step across,’ said the DDI as he scanned the message.
    â€˜I understand the car’s been found, sir,’ said Marriott, buttoning his jacket as he entered Hardcastle’s office.
    â€˜Yes, it has, Marriott. It’s a Haxe-Doulton, and the number plate matches the one that Mr Villiers gave the Chelsea police when he reported it stolen. It’s at Wandsworth nick. I just hope that whoever took it in was wearing gloves.’
    â€˜So do I, sir. When I sent the message to all stations, I directed that caution should be taken because of the possibility of fingerprints being found.’
    â€˜And I suppose they might even have read it,’ complained Hardcastle caustically; he had no great faith in the scholarship of policemen. ‘Go across to the Yard and ask Mr Collins if he can attend, or if he’s not available to send one of his people.’
    â€˜Very good, sir.’
    â€˜And tell him we’ll meet whoever it is at Wandsworth.’
    â€˜Yes, sir,’ said Marriott, hiding the disappointment from his voice. His hopes of spending the evening of New Year’s Day with his family had just been dashed by the DDI.
    â€˜Can I help you, sir?’ An elderly station sergeant crossed from his desk to the counter as Hardcastle and Marriott entered the front office of Wandsworth police station.
    â€˜I’m DDI Hardcastle of A, Skipper, and this is DS Marriott. Your officers have recovered a stolen motor car, I believe.’
    â€˜Yes, they have, sir, it was found abandoned in Wandsworth High Street. The vehicle in question is in one of the empty stables. I’ll show you the way.’
    â€˜Haven’t you got any horses here, then?’ asked Hardcastle.
    â€˜Most of ’em have been took by the army, sir,’ said the station sergeant, as he lifted the flap in the counter and led Hardcastle and Marriott out of the back door and into the station yard.
    Sinclair Villiers’s Haxe-Doulton, shrouded in a tarpaulin, was standing in the centre of one of the stables.
    â€˜We thought it would be a good idea to cover it up, sir, what with the dust and bird droppings and that what comes off of the rafters.’
    â€˜Help the station sergeant get that tarpaulin off, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, standing back and lighting his pipe.
    Once Villiers’s car was uncovered, Hardcastle walked slowly round it. It was mud bespattered but apparently undamaged. The DDI, however, made no attempt to search it immediately.
    â€˜We’ll wait for the fingerprint officer to examine it before we see if we can find anything in it that might help, Marriott.’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’ Not knowing how long it would be before DI Collins or one of his men arrived at the police station, Marriott made no comment about the prospect of not getting home before midnight, by which time he would have been on duty for a good twenty-three hours. But that was the lot of a CID officer, particularly one who had aspirations for further advancement in the Force. And Marriott hoped, one day, to be an inspector or even more.
    It was almost nine o’clock before Charles Collins arrived.
    â€˜I thought I’d come myself as it’s a murder job, Ernie.’
    â€˜Very good of you, Charlie. We haven’t touched it beyond taking off the tarpaulin.’
    DI Collins spent the next thirty minutes closely examining every surface on the outside and inside of Villiers’s motor car, occasionally muttering to himself while dusting certain parts of the vehicle with grey fingerprint powder. Finally, he produced a camera from his case and began taking photographs.
    â€˜I’ve got a few prints, Ernie,’ he said, as he began packing away his equipment. ‘I’ll let you know if they match any in my records. Incidentally, there’s a bloodstain on the steering wheel. Looks as though whoever was