‘Listen, let me help you out. It would likely have been some bugger who’d got lost and decided to use my land to turn round on. Or maybe he’d stopped to have his sandwiches with his van blocking my gateway. That’s happened before, too. Police’ll never do anything about it, obviously. Too bloody busy, aren’t you?’

‘I’m sure if you phoned the station, they would send somebody out when they had a car available.’

Leach began to cough. He was wishing the policemen would go away; his lungs were responding as if he had an allergic reaction. He was too tired to argue with them. Besides, they didn’t look as though they would put up with absolutely anything, the way the Ranger did.

‘Do you get joyriders up here?’ said Cooper. ‘It’s a quiet spot. They like to abandon vehicles somewhere and set fire to them.’

Leach followed the detective’s gaze. He was looking at the scorched shell of the pick-up on the hard-standing near the big shed.

‘A bit of an accident,’ said Leach. ‘I’ll get a few spares off it when I get round to it.’

‘This white van . . .’ said Weenink.

Leach shrugged. ‘I’d like to help, but –’

‘What about your two sons?’ asked Cooper.

‘What about them?’

‘Were they at home on Sunday? They might have seen the van. Can we speak to them?’

‘They’re at school.’

‘Someone could call back later.’

‘I don’t know about that.’

‘And your wife?’ said Cooper. ‘Was she here at the time?’

‘My wife?’ Leach finally spat out the irritation that had been troubling his lungs, narrowly missing Cooper’s boots. ‘You’re wasting your time, mister. You can forget all about her.’

Later in the morning, Diane Fry and DI Hitchens walked into the DCI’s office. Tailby looked at them with a faint hope. ‘Is there something?’ he said.

‘A couple of things on the parents. The Westons,’ said Hitchens.

‘Oh?’

‘Number one, they had a burglary last year, at a weekend cottage they’ve got at Ashford-in-the-Water.’

‘A weekend cottage? That’s nice, on a teacher’s salary.’

‘Apparently, the Westons are planning on retiring to this cottage in a year or two. Presumably Mr Weston is taking early retirement. He’s a deputy head, by the way.’

‘A good pension, I suppose.’

Fry thought the DCI was starting to sound wistful. His own retirement date was a few years away yet, but he could make it come closer if he wanted to. She wondered how much the cottage had cost the Westons. She imagined honeysuckle growing by the front door and roses in the garden, a couple of loungers by a small pond with a few Koi carp. She tried to imagine Tailby living in such a cottage. But Eric Weston had a Mrs Weston to retire to his cottage with. It made a difference.

‘A burglary, eh?’