The office was like any other – a computer in the corner and a desk littered with paperwork. From the extent of it, it looked as though an abattoir manager might actually have more paperwork to deal with than a police officer, though it was hard to believe. The manager had his work clothes in a kind of ante-room with a washbasin.

‘Well, you can talk to Teasdale if you really want to. He’s around the place somewhere.’

‘How long has he been with you?’ asked Fry.

‘Oh, a year or two. I’m not sure exactly without looking it up. He’s not one of the full-time staff, you know.’

‘But experienced, though?’

‘Experienced? Well . . . In what way?’

‘Experienced in the use of a knife? For bleeding animals. Gutting, and so on. Whatever it is you do here.’

‘Teasdale?’ The manager stared at Fry. ‘We are talking about Keith Teasdale?’

‘I believe so, sir.’

The manager began to laugh. ‘Expertise with a knife.’ He laughed some more. Cooper and Fry looked at each other.

‘Could we share the joke?’ asked Fry.

The manager pulled a tissue from a box on the desk. They expected him to wipe the tears of laughter from his eyes. But instead he began to wipe his hands, rubbing between the fingers as if to dry a sudden outbreak of sweat.

‘Keith Teasdale does not use a knife in his work.’ He began to snigger again. ‘As far as I know, anyway.’

‘So what does he do exactly, sir?’

‘Keith Teasdale. Old Keith, eh? Expertise with a knife? Expertise with a yard brush, more like. Teasdale is a cleaner. He shoves a wet mop about the place. Not much of a lethal weapon, surely?’

‘I see.’

‘Unless you can be charged with being in possession of an offensive mop bucket.’

‘But they call him Slasher at the market,’ protested Fry.

‘We call him that here too,’ said the manager. ‘Ah, I see. What’s in a name? Is that evidence against him, then?’

Now another tissue had to be used. And this one did go to the face to mop up the tears. ‘Do you want me to tell you how he got the nickname “Slasher”?’

A man appeared in the doorway of the ante-room, hesitated when he saw the visitors and began to go away again with an apologetic nod.

‘Hey, Chris,’ called the manager. ‘This is the police. They want to know why we call Keith Teasdale “Slasher”!’

The other man began to laugh too. ‘Are you going to tell them?’

‘Of course. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but –!’

‘Poor old Keith.’

They both laughed for a while. Fry was beginning to go pink with anger.

‘Basically, Keith Teasdale has a bladder problem,’ said the manager.

‘Sorry, didn’t I explain? We’re police officers, not doctors.’