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somebody like that, somebody from here, but with police trainin’.”
    Both men turned expectantly to Davenport. The constable was looking at the ground.
    I’ve hurt his pride, Woodend thought, questioned his competence.
    But he’d had it to do. When he had time, he’d do his best to make up for it.
    â€œThere’s nobody in the Force that was brought up here, sir,” Davenport said slowly. “At least, not a proper bobby. There is a police cadet, Phil Black, who lives on Stubbs Street.”
    â€œBetter than nothin’, I suppose,” Woodend said. “Could you have him parcelled up and sent round tomorrow – say about noon?” he asked Holland.
    â€œWell . . . yes, sir, if that’s what you want,” Inspector Holland said. “Is there anything else you need?”
    â€œAye. I don’t want the shed guarded any more, but I do want it locked – securely. Do you still do all your patrollin’ on foot, or have you got any mobile units in Maltham?”
    â€œWe’ve got four crime cars,” Holland said proudly.
    â€œRight. I want ’em to make random checks on this place. An’ I don’t want any more salt tipped until the investigation is over. They’ll have to confine themselves to makin’ blocks or else store it somewhere else. Fix it, will you?”
    Holland shook his head. His complacency was badly shaken, his joviality now no more than a distant memory.
    â€œDifficult, that, sir,” he said. “Mr Brierley won’t like it and he’s got a lot of influence with the––”
    â€œIf he doesn’t like it, he can bloody well lump it,” Woodend snarled. “And he may have clout, but so do I.” He dropped his voice to a tone of sweet reasonableness. “I just don’t want to bring in the heavy guns unless I’m forced to.”
    â€œBut why do you want it closed, sir?”
    Why indeed? Because of a tingle at the back of his neck as he stood inside, looking up at the great pile of salt. Because of an instinct, developed over a score of investigations which told him that the salt store held the key – or at least a key – to the murder. How could he explain that to a small-town copper who spent most of his time dealing with minor theft and domestic disturbances?
    â€œIt’s standard procedure in a case of this nature,” he said. “Surely you know that?”
    Holland was frozen for a moment, then nodded his head to indicate that of course he knew it – it had merely slipped his mind for the moment.
    Bloody idiot! thought the Chief Inspector.
    Woodend had conducted murder inquiries from caravans, primary schools and barns. This time it was Constable Davenport’s office in Salton Police House. He surveyed the room. There was a desk and three straight chairs, a battered typewriter and an old filing cabinet which looked as if it was there more for appearance than any practical purpose. Two slick government posters were pinned to the noticeboard, the first warning of the dangers of rabies, the second proclaiming that “coughs and sneezes spread diseases”. Just below them was a cruder, hand-drawn advertisement for a nearby village fair. Woodend pulled them all down and threw them into the bin. The place still didn’t look much like a nerve centre, but as the investigation progressed, as reports were filed and charts made to cross-check information, it would take on a much more businesslike air.
    He sat down at the desk, facing his new team, and reached for his Capstan.
    â€œHave one of these, sir,” Davenport said, offering him a slimmer, shorter Park Drive.
    Rutter also had his hand in his pocket, and produced a packet of Tareyton.
    â€œâ€˜If you haven’t smoked Tareyton, you haven’t smoked’,” Woodend quoted, slightly disgustedly. “Cork tipped. They’ll never catch on, you know, Sergeant.”
    Cigarettes were