Thoday was glad to be excused from the eels and the batty ladies. Redfyre was welcome to those. But he decided with silent truculence to turn the inspector’s list of to-dos upside down. The clothes at the morgue weren’t going anywhere. They’d keep. You couldn’t say the same for witnesses. They upped sticks and disappeared or their memories failed. No! Attack the easily breached spot in any wall first, he reckoned. That was the best plan. Hang routine. Go for the obvious. And to Thoday, the obvious was Constable Thompson. It sounded as though he might have a few leads. This was his patrol patch, as the inspector had said. He’d know all the drifters on it by sight. With his elevation to the detective squad, local boy Thoday had become somewhat detached from the goings-on in the street. But he knew all the regulars. He’d expected to recognise the murder victim when he’d caught a glimpse of him on the slab from a distance. But, disappointingly, he hadn’t. The coat was instantly recognisable. He was sure he’d seen it (or its twin) before. Always one or two of them parading about the place, even in high summer. The face had been harder to place. It had puzzled him. And then the obvious answer to his disquiet hit him: clean-shaven!

That was unusual. And possibly opened up another avenue of enquiry: How many barber shops were there in central Cambridge that would take on a shaggy tramp? He could think of a couple. Both run by men who enjoyed a good natter. Thoday grinned at the prospect. A few interested questions, and he’d have a name for Inspector Smarty Pants by the end of the day!

Thoday turned his long, eager lope in the direction of Parker’s Piece. And soon picked out, on the fringes of the crowd sitting on the grass watching a cricket match, a reassuring presence sweating away the afternoon heat in navy uniform and helmet.

“Last Friday? Tramp? Yer, that were old Dickie!” Ben Thompson was perfectly certain, although he’d only caught a glimpse of him as he’d disappeared. “I’d know him anywhere! He’s been missing for quite a while, of course. That being the nature of these gentlemen. Wandering. He’s been away up north, word is, revisiting his roots. Some of them have roots, yer know. But there was no mistaking that beard and that thatch of hair and that swagger. Dickie has this special way of walking . . . brazen as a bandmaster! Put ’im in front of a regiment and they’d march after ’im, all right.”

Hole in one! Thoday kept the thought to himself and tried to stay calm. A firm, professional identification of an individual in prehaircut state was what he’d just been handed. The poor old sod had tidied himself up in preparation for whatever skulduggery had befallen him behind closed oak doors, if Redfyre had read the tracks right. Well, now! With increased eagerness for the hunt, Thoday turned his attention back to the constable.