A herd of heifers was being sold in the cattle market. The mart men dodged and danced round them as they went through the ring. The heifers were being sent for breeding, to a suckler herd, where they would meet the bull for the first time. And the bull would be some giant Limousin or Charolais, weighing two tons and bulging with double layers of muscle so heavy and deep into his body that he could barely move, except to hoist himself into position for the thrust. It would come as a shock to them, these black and white virgins. Their white eyes showed they were already getting a suspicion of things that lay ahead.

From where they were parked, Diane Fry could see through the doors to the side of the auction ring, where farmers and buyers milled around, absorbed in their own conversations.

‘Keith Teasdale is inside,’ said DI Hitchens. ‘His vehicle has been located in the car park.’

‘When do we make a move?’

‘We want to do it as discreetly as possible.’

‘Wait for the auction to finish, then?’

‘Yes. We take it easy, keep an eye on them and let the crowd disperse. It’s too full of people in there at the moment.’

The radio crackled, and Fry answered it. ‘I think we might have a problem, sir,’ she said.

‘What’s up?’

‘DC Weenink reports a group of women gathering in the car park. Fifteen or twenty of them, he says.’

‘What the hell do they want?’

‘It looks like some kind of protest.’

As he entered the hospital ward, Ben Cooper nodded to the nurse at the desk, who smiled at him. She looked a nice girl, but tired and preoccupied, too busy to engage in social intercourse. But for the colour of her uniform, she could have been in the police service.

There were twelve beds in the ward. Some of the patients were old men, stirring restlessly or sitting up in their striped pyjamas, staring at the unexpected visitor. It was outside normal visiting hours and there was little to occupy them until the next meal arrived.

At first Cooper thought it might have been a mixed ward, one of those relics of the NHS. But then he remembered who he had come to see. Stride lay on his side, a slight figure too slender and too mannered in his pose to be at home among the old men. He was running his pale hand through his long hair, pushing a strand away from his face.

As Cooper came nearer, he saw that Stride’s eyes were distant and unfocused, like a man listening to a personal stereo or an audio tape of some absorbing thriller that had taken him away from the real world. But there were no headphones. Stride needed no artificial aids to distance himself from reality. That distancing must be a great talent.

‘Visiting time, Simon,’ he said.