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the chickens? I don’t like to waste things.’
    The old farmer’s death was routinely dealt with by the police. A patrol was detailed to investigate. Peter Diamond heard of it first over the radio while driving down Wellsway. Nothing to make his pulse beat faster, some sad individual topping himself with a shotgun.
    He drove on, his thoughts on his own mortality. High blood pressure, it seemed, was a mysterious condition. His sort had no recognised cause, according to Dr Snell. The symptoms were vague. He might suffer some headaches, tiredness and dizzy spells. He had not. If it affected the heart, or the arteries, he might experience breathlessness, particularly at night, pain in the chest, coughing or misty vision. He had told the doctor honestly that none of it seemed to apply to him. In that case, she said, he need not alter his life-style, except, she suggested, to reduce some weight, if possible, and avoid worrying too much.
    Great, he thought. Now I’m worrying about worrying.
    As he had time to spare, he called at the Central Library and looked up high blood pressure in a medical textbook. They called it hypertension, a term he didn’t care for. But the author was good enough to state that if the condition caused no symptoms at all, it could not be described as a disorder. He liked that and closed the book. The rest of the article could wait until he noticed a symptom, if ever.
    His hypertension level had an immediate test. Having returned the book to the shelf, he turned the corner of the stack and found himself face to face with the new Assistant Chief Constable, all decked out in black barathea, shiny silver buttons and new braided hat. Diamond managed a flustered, ‘Morning, em, afternoon, sir.’
    ‘Afternoon, Mr Diamond. Checking some facts?’
    He didn’t want the high-ups to know about his hypertension. Not for the first time in a crisis, he said the first thing that popped into his head, and it was so unexpected that it had to be believed. ‘That’s right, sir. I’m looking for the philosophy section.’
    ‘Philosophy?’
    ‘I wanted to find out about Kai Lung, if possible. I think he must be a philosopher.’
    ‘Chinese?’
    ‘I believe so.’
    ‘Sorry. Can’t help. Is this an Open University course?’
    A low punch. Diamond’s rival John Wigfull had got to the head of Bath CID on the strength of his OU degree. Further education was not on Diamond’s agenda. ‘No, something that was quoted to me earlier. I wanted to trace the source. It’s my lunch-hour.’
    ‘Good luck, then. I’m looking for Who’s Who.’
    Save your time, matey, Diamond thought. You won’t make Who’s Who for at least another year.
    To support his story, he strolled over to the inquiry desk and asked if they had anything on Kai Lung. A tall young man looked over his glasses and told him to try under Bramah.
    Thinking Bramah sounded Indian, Diamond emphasised, ‘I said Kai Lung. I reckon it’s Chinese.’
    ‘Ernest Bramah. He was a fictional character invented by Ernest Bramah. The Wallet of Kai Lung wasthe first title of several, as far as I remember. Try the fiction shelves.’
    ‘Ernest Bramah?’
    ‘Yes, but don’t pick up one of his Max Carrados books expecting to find Kai Lung. Carrados is the blind detective.’
    Diamond didn’t want to know about infirmities in his profession. ‘I’ll avoid those, then.’
    He wandered over to the fiction shelves.
    The hypertension definitely edged up a few points when he got back to his place of work, Manvers Street Police Station. Two of the youngest detectives were getting into a car when he drove in. The use of CID manpower was a constant source of friction. His old adversary Chief Inspector John Wigfull was in charge of CID matters, but Diamond headed the murder squad. In bleak spells like this when everyone in Bath respected everyone else’s right to exist, the squad virtually disbanded. Most of the lads were employed on break-ins and car thefts. Like anyone