“Don’t you dare say that to him,” said Annie. “He’s very sensitive. He also has a black belt in karate.”

Doug had no such thing, of course, but Annie felt the lie would reassure Alex more than knowing that he had grown up on an estate like the one where she lived, and that he could handle himself.

“Will you—­”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be around to check that everything’s all right later. We should have some results from Vic by then. And we’ll also have some other officers to keep an eye on you. I’ll make sure you’re introduced to them. If you hear anything at all from the man who came to see you, call me.” They turned into the squad room. “Now wait here with Doug. I’ll go and arrange for the artist.”

WINSOME TOOK Gerry Masterson with her to Vaughn’s ABP after Banks had given them all the quick version of Morgan Spencer’s postmortem results. She thought it could be too important an interview to carry out alone, and it would be good experience for Gerry.

They pulled up at the gate of the fenced compound and got out of the car. The place wasn’t very large, Winsome noticed, just a few metal storage structures, aluminum most likely, an area for parking the fleet of collection vans, two temporary office buildings on blocks and a windowless structure with a tapered chimney, which Winsome took to be the incinerator. It was a fair day, weatherwise, if a bit cold and gray, but the ground was still muddy from the recent rains. Winsome and Gerry put on their Wellingtons before getting out of the car and heading for the nearest office trailer. A faint smell of decay hung around the compound—­an occupational hazard, Winsome imagined, no matter how well you packaged up the dead meat. She also noticed that there were no other farms or businesses for some distance.

Another thing Winsome noticed as they climbed the steps to the office was a total lack of activity. There was no one in the yard, no sounds at all, only the pale smoke drifting from the chimney of the incinerator and dispersing in the chill air. She wondered if there was anybody around at all. It was Wednesday, so it should be a regular workday. She knocked on the flimsy door.

Almost immediately it was opened by a tall and slightly stooped man in jeans and a polo-­neck green jersey. He had a head of bristly gray hair, which matched the bristles around his jaw. Winsome put him in his mid fifties. “Mr. Vaughn?” she inquired.

“One of them. Neil. It’s a family business.”

Winsome and Gerry showed their warrant cards and Neil Vaughn invited them inside. The side of an old cardboard box served as a doormat, and they wiped their feet as best they could without reducing it to shreds. Vaughn seemed to be the only person around. After he asked them to sit down, he returned to a desk littered with papers and swiveled his chair to face them. The inside of the trailer was bleak, as such places usually are, and on the pasteboard walls were hung with a girlie calendar curling at the edges, a large chart with written-­in squares and an Ordnance Survey map of the immediate area. The floor didn’t feel stable, and the chairs were lumpy. The office smelled of pipe tobacco, and Winsome guessed they didn’t bother much about nonsmoking regulations in the workplace out here. A small electric fire stood against the far wall. Both elements were on, but the heat wasn’t reaching where they were sitting.

“We’re all gutted by what happened to Caleb,” said Vaughn. “I gave everyone the day off. I can’t imagine how anyone would have had the heart for collections today. I do most of the hands-­on business now my father’s incapacitated. My brother, Charlie, helps out sometimes.” Vaughn paused. “When he can be bothered, that is.”

Winsome didn’t miss the edge in his tone. Nor did Gerry, judging by the way she frowned.

Neil Vaughn looked from one to the other. “What can I say? We all follow our own paths. Charlie’s doesn’t involve fallen stock collection and disposal.”

“What does it involve?” Winsome asked.

“Horses, mostly. And not dead ones.”

Winsome thought it would be a good idea to have a chat with Charlie Vaughn, and she saw Gerry writing in her notebook. Somehow, she sensed that was exactly what she was jotting down.

“Was Caleb with you for a long time?” she asked.

“Thirty years. I’ve known him since I started in the business. He taught me practically all I know.”

“But he never sought promotion? Or got it?”

Vaughn gave a harsh laugh. “There’s not a lot of promotion to be had around here. No, Caleb liked driving. He was his own boss, in his own world. Put him in the van with his music and his fags, and he was happy as a pig in . . . well . . . the proverbial.”

“He worked alone?”

“That was one concession he earned over the years. And there weren’t many as would want to ride with him and put up with the smoke and the music. That prog rock stuff, I think it’s called. Old-­fashioned, at any rate. Gives me an earache. And I know smoking’s not strictly legal on the job, but . . . well, it was Caleb’s cab. We usually have a team of two on collections, of course, but the local farmers were happy to help Caleb if they had to. Everyone knew him. He hadn’t a bad word to say for anyone. And he was strong. It wasn’t often he needed a hand with a load.”

Winsome was getting the picture. Caleb Ross was a saint. Well, saint or sinner, it didn’t matter that much; Ross wasn’t the victim who interested them, unless he had played a part in the events of his own demise.

“Do you know if Mr. Ross had any financial problems, any money troubles at all?”

“Caleb? Good Lord, no. At least, he never complained. He lived a simple life. Had a little cottage in Lyndgarth, just off the green, lived there with his wife, Maggie. The kids had grown up and flown the coop. Maggie . . . has anyone . . . ?”

“She’s been informed, sir,” said Gerry.

“That’s a relief. I must pay her a visit. Soon as I . . . well . . .” He waved his hands over the mess of papers. “I thought there was no sense in me staying at home. I couldn’t bear it, just pacing and thinking of poor Caleb. So I came to work. Thought it might take my mind off things.”

“And has it?” Winsome asked.

“Not really. Something like this, it’s hard to get your mind around it. We all have to go eventually, I know that, but Caleb was fit and strong, and about the same age as me. I suppose I assumed he would always be around.”

“From what we can gather, it was just a tragic accident,” said Winsome. “The perfect storm. Though I don’t suppose that’s much consolation.”

One of the elements made a crackling sound, as if a fly had just landed on it. “Then why are you here?” Vaughn asked. “Is it a matter of insurance?”

“Nothing like that, sir,” said Winsome.

“Neil, please. Then what?”

Winsome and Gerry exchanged glances. “You haven’t been watching the news?”

“A constable came to the office,” Vaughn said. “All I know is that he told us Caleb had died in a crash due to severe weather conditions. I didn’t want to go home and see it replayed endlessly on the news. Is that not what happened?”

“That’s exactly what happened,” Winsome said. “A freak hailstorm, a stray sheep and an oncoming car. There’s no question of blame or anything.”

Vaughn looked puzzled. “Then what . . . ?”

“It’s what Mr. Ross was carrying that interests us.”

“I don’t understand. Carrying?”

“There was another body found at the scene.”

“Another body? You mean a human body? Whose?”

“Among the animal parts, sir . . .”

“Good God! I don’t believe it. How could a human body be mistaken for a fallen animal?”

“We don’t think it could, but all the parts were wrapped in black bin liner.”

“Parts?”

“The body had been cut into several pieces. I must ask you to keep this information to yourself for the moment, sir. All the press and TV have are rumors so far.”