An investigation is under way into post-mortem examinations conducted by pathologist Dr Kirk Shenfield, who took early retirement last week after fourteen years in his post at Bevham General Hospital. A spokesman for the Area Health Trust declined to release details of the cases but said that ‘certain discrepancies and anomalies’ had been noted in a recent check, after queries had been raised by families of deceased relatives whose post-mortem examinations had been performed by Dr Shenfield. ‘It is therefore our intention to conduct a re-examination of certain cases by an independent pathologist from an outside Health Trust. Families and the relevant authorities are being kept informed.’

‘Where’s Simon?’

‘Out looking for Wookie again. I’ll join him when I’ve helped you up. I can’t bear to think of the poor little thing lost somewhere in this freezing wind.’

‘Wookie will turn up. Dogs do this sort of thing.’

‘Wookie has never done this sort of thing, and what do you know about dogs?’

‘I had a dog.’

‘When?’

‘When I was eight. It got run over.’

‘Well, there you are then. Right, I’ll get breakfast . . . hang on, that’s Simon back.’

Cat shouted to him from the landing but from the tone of his voice in reply, she knew he did not have Wookie.

‘It’s below freezing, I’ve been about three square miles calling and whistling, I’ve looked in ditches and a few outbuildings, I’ve had a word with the people at Crown Cottage and they’ll keep a lookout. I also went up to the main road and along that for a bit so I’m sure he hasn’t been run over. I don’t what else we can do except maybe get some posters up around the area, pin them to trees and poles. If you’ve got a decent photo of the Wookster I’ll sort it out and we can print them off straight away. Right, I need some hot coffee.’

Cat stood in the kitchen doorway, thinking about the past twenty-four hours, about Sam’s call, about Lionel Brown, about Rachel, about Kieron’s knee, but, for the moment, mainly about Wookie, small, silky silver-tan, hair over his eyes, noisy, bouncy, needy, good-natured little Wookie, resilient after the death of his friend the old cat Mephisto, fiercely protective of the house in the face of strong gales rattling the windows, foxes squealing at the end of the garden, mice scratching, the postman making the letter box clatter. Wookie, out all one freezing night and still out, on his own, possibly hurt, barking furiously without being heard. But no, if he had been barking someone would have certainly found him.

‘There were a lot of reports of dog snatchers around the patch last autumn,’ Simon said, pouring boiling water into the cafetière.

‘Thank you for that.’