‘ Well. You can ask,' he said .

*

They interviewed Harry at intervals throughout the day, making sure he was fed at the correct times, ensuring he got the proper rests, asking him repeatedly if he wanted a solicitor.

The Police and Criminal Evidence Act obliged them to make sure he understood questions, was not distressed or fatigued or under the influence of any substance that affected his level of awareness, and that he was offered refreshment and allowed access to toilet facilities.

They alternated their teams of interviewers, aiming to break his story by changing direction and the type of question they asked. This also allowed the officers to spend time on the tedious job of listening to their recordings on earphones and transcribing them on to Record of Interview sheets. They analysed their results in between sessions and considered the next strategy. Besides, the interviewers needed a rest, too, after an hour with Harry Dickinson.

*

'Look, Harry, we all know that old men sometimes feel randy too. Your sexual urges don't disappear altogether, do they? Eh, Harry? Not like some people think. I suppose the young girls still get you excited, don't they? ’

DI Hitchens was leaning across the table, staring into Harry's face. He was watching for a crack in the impassive facade, probing and pushing for a reaction.

‘ It's just not a nice thought, is it, that your old granddad might be lusting after the young women like he always used to when he was young? Best to pretend it doesn't happen, eh? Sweep it under the carpet and keep quiet. What you don't know about doesn't hurt. But we know better, don't we, Harry? ’

Harry said nothing, secure in his superior experience, look ing at Hitchens as if he were a simpleton.

‘ Because sometimes it goes too far, doesn't it? Sometimes you just can't control yourself. Can you, Harry? ’

The old man raised an eyebrow dismissively, suggesting that he knew more than a thing or two about control .

*

All the interviewers had been trained to use the proper interviewing techniques. Open questions were the key to the GEMAC procedure – Greeting, Explanation, Mutual Activity, Closure. The aim was to create spiral questions – open questions such as who, what, why, when, where and how, followed by probing of the answers. The theory was that if someone was inventing a story, it was almost impossible to maintain a lie under detailed probing.

As for closed questions, which invited only a single-word reply – they were too much of a temptation for someone like Harry.

*

‘We have the statement of a Mr Gary Edwards, a bird-watcher, who saw a person answering your description passing along the path near the place where Laura Vernon's body was found. A person accompanied by a dog. Was that you, Mr Dickinson?’

Diane Fry looked up expectantly as Harry opened his mouth to speak. He was starting to look relaxed and calm, yet still somehow aloof from what was going on around him in the claustrophobic interview room. Ironically, he seemed immune from the stresses the interviewers were suffering. They knew that they would shortly have to allow him another rest break without having made any progress at all.

‘ Observant chap, was he, this bird-watcher? Did he describe the colour of my eyes, and all?'

‘ It was an old man that Mr Edwards saw.'

‘ Do we all look alike then?' said Harry, with an infuriating smile .

*

'Idle and foolish remarks will be disregarded', the rule book said. But the interviewers found themselves seizing eagerly on every remark that Harry Dickinson let drop, no matter how idle or foolish. At least it was a reaction, something more than that same stony, contemptuous stare.

Harry had the air of a man patiently enduring an outrageous impertinence. He allowed them no emotional feedback, only the unspoken promise of a sober and abiding enmity.

*

'Is that the policy you use towards your wife, Harry? What they don't know about doesn't hurt. Women will think the worst of you, no matter what you tell them. So you might as well tell them nothing. Isn't that right? They're happier with their own imaginings anyway. Isn't that right, Harry? ’

The one thing Harry wanted was his pipe, but he wouldn't give them the pleasure of being able to refuse him. He looked from Hitchens to Fry with a blank, slightly puzzled expression, as if wondering how they came to be in his room.

‘ Or does Gwen know all about your activities, Harry? Perhaps she'll want to tell us all about it. Because we've got her here, Harry. She's in another interview room now. What do you think of that?'

‘ Who's going to feed my dog?' said Harry .

*

Bert Cooper was in the CID room, handling the routine crime reported overnight. His head was thumping as if someone was driving a pneumatic drill through his brain. His mouth was dry and tasted foul, and his body ached all over. He had told DS Rennie that the injury to his head was the result of an accident on the farm. For half an hour he had been forced to submit to a barrage of sheep-shagging jokes, while his stomach churned and he fought the bile that constantly threatened to rise up in his throat.

He had woken this morning with no idea where he was. A strange bed in a strange flat, and no recollection how he had got there, apart from the clue of a thundering hangover and a body stiffened solid with bruises, as he discovered when he tried to move.

But there had been a note scribbled on the back of an old envelope on the bedside table. 'Have been called into the office. I suggest you call in sick. Whatever you do, I don't want to know about it.' In his groggy state, it had taken several minutes before he had been able to work out who the `DF' was who had signed the note.

Then a few grey, fragmented memories had started to trickle into his brain. The visit to the dojo he remembered; then the phone call to Helen Milner and how Diane Fry had shafted him, how she had planned to humiliate him. It was so obvious now that she had deliberately ruined his chances with Helen and had planned to make him look small in front of his friends at the dojo. She had not mentioned that she was a fourth dan black belt when he had boasted of his skill and invited her to a bout. She had lied to him, and when he realized what she had planned, he had walked out in a blazing fury.

Vaguely he remembered the pub near the bus station. It was the third pub he had been in, but he knew something had happened there. From that point on, though, the memories disintegrated completely. Had there been something to do with pigs? Yes, he thought there probably had. Which didn't go anywhere near explaining how he had ended up in Diane Fry's bed and what had caused his injuries. Had she beaten him up? It didn't seem beyond the bounds of possibility. She had kicked him in the teeth in every other way she could find.

Even sitting in the office when he eventually dragged himself into work, Cooper found the memories he needed still eluded him. All that he could think of were his black dogs — the series of disasters that had knocked the legs from under him, coming one after another.

Then he thought of his mother lying in hospital, and he groaned. How could he have forgotten about her and done something so stupid? He thought of his meeting with Superintendent Jepson and swore vehemently. No doubt that was Diane Fry's work as well — she had got in thick with DI Hitchens and used a bit of influence on him. No doubt it had been while they were away in Yorkshire overnight together. Very cosy. That was something he certainly couldn't compete with.