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running around the room, laughing and shouting that he had no weight, that he was as light as a feather, the mother was
hiding in the kitchen screaming that the walls were closing in on her, and the father was watching the dazzling neon lights in the wallpaper. The CID found no pills in the house apart from a box of
Anadin. No powders, no syringes. How the Preece family had absorbed lysergic acid into their systems was still a mystery.
    The Lowestoft Drugs Squad was called in and they, too, were mystified. They knew of no drugs ring in that area, but believed the incident might uncover one. Unfortunately, their small drugs team
was overstretched; they could not spare officers on what could have been a fruitless investigation. Assistance was requested and it was the Yard, itself, who supplied someone, a man who had
experience of undercover work, someone who had the knack of getting on well with the more unsavoury elements of society. Kelso, go to the top of the unsavouries class. And take your time with this
one, there’s no rush. It might be nothing, but dig around; something could turn up. If you’re lucky. Grin.
    Kelso lit another cigarette.
    He wasn’t renowned for his good luck.
    He turned away from the harbour and walked back towards the town. Water had seeped through his sneakers, making his socks damp, the big toe on his left foot numb. That was always the first one
to go. Poor blood circulation. He was conscious of the stiff breeze glancing around the tip of his nose.
    Kelso had watched the Preece house for several days, squatting on the embankment on the far side of the marshland which separated the town from the river. The bank rose pyramid-shaped from the
water, descending just as sharply to the marsh on the other side. It was manmade and meant to contain the floodwaters when they rushed up the ten-mile estuary from the sea. Several canals
crisscrossed the marshland, natural drains for when the river overwhelmed its confines; one such canal bordered the allotments which led up to houses on the town’s edge. The Preece woman,
poor cow, would have drowned in there if she hadn’t been dragged out. Kelso had watched through powerful binoculars, a natural aid to an ornithologist, as Preece had dug his vegetable patch.
Preece worked alone, for his son was still in hospital with his dislocated shoulder, and Kelso had seen no suspicious activity. The man usually worked till dusk, stopping occasionally to chat to
neighbours. He would leave his tools inside a small hut on the site (Kelso had searched the hut by torchlight one night and had found nothing other than rusting and blunted garden equipment) and
then return to the house. And he would stay there. Even his evening drink had been forgotten.
    But maybe tonight he would change his mind; he may have regained his thirst by now. It was reason enough – and a good excuse – for Kelso to visit the man’s local.
    The lights of the town beckoned him back and he left the coastal path, sliding down a concrete incline to the car park which was used by tourists in the busy season, but empty now. It was a
convenient short-cut to the high street, but like dropping into a large, black pit. The urgent sound of waves pounding on the shore was muffled by the sea wall and concrete slope, the breeze
skipping over the barrier to swoop down towards the middle of the dark arena. The gravel beneath Kelso’s feet had a less satisfying crunch to it, too compact and, unlike the seawashed beach,
too filled with dirt. He cut a diagonal path across the car park, both hands tucked into the pockets of his reefer jacket, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, his shoulders slouched
and head bent forward as though studying the ground before him. His footsteps slowed; he came to a halt. He took the cigarette from his mouth and raised his head.
    He looked around.
    Nothing but black shadows. Lights ahead, stars above; in between – darkness. His nose twitched and he