As the morning went on his nerves became more frayed. Why hadn’t the inspector asked to see him? What made him different from all the other employees on the estate? In the beginning he had his story prepared and was almost confident, but as lunchtime approached and still he had not been summoned to the office he became frightened. He imagined some sort of net closing in around him. He felt like running away.

At twelve o’clock when Vic Liddle went back to Keeper’s Cottage for his dinner Craven took the van up the lane to the Crowford Hotel. The landlord scowled at him but served him all the same.

‘What’s going on at the Cadver, then?’ Den asked, his curiosity overcoming his disapproval of Craven. ‘Has Marcus Grenville come out yet to speak to those reporters?’

‘I don’t know,’ Craven said. ‘It’s none of my business.’ Then the irony of the situation struck him and he ordered another pint. He had never thought he would be in a position to stand up for Marcus Grenville.

He drank three pints of bitter very quickly and when the landlord asked if he wanted to order something to eat he shook his head. He needed the alcohol to steady his nerves. He was convinced that this afternoon the inspector would want to speak to him. If he didn’t keep his cool he would be under arrest by teatime.

At one o’clock exactly he left the hotel.

‘You could tell those fellows camped out at your place that I’m here,’ Den said hopefully. ‘They might fancy a pint by now.’

Craven said nothing. On the way down the hill he was strangely clear headed and his driving was flawless. He went immediately to the estate office and knocked on the door, his speech prepared: You haven’t asked to see me yet but I think I might be able to help you.

But the voice that told him to come in was Vic Liddle’s, and he wanted to talk not about poisoned buzzards or dotty old ladies but about burning the heather on the hill the following day.

‘Where’s the policeman, then?’ Craven said, as casually as he could manage. ‘Doesn’t he want to see me?’

‘He went ages ago,’ Liddle said. ‘Before I went for my dinner. He said he’d not be back. He reckoned he’d got everything he wanted. Why? Didn’t he speak to you?’ Bloody incompetents, he thought. You’d think they’d make sure they’d speak to Craven of all people. What chance did they have of sorting out what had happened?