“All the same, Redfyre, when Yorkshire calls, I think it’s only courteous if a Yorkshireman answers them. I’ll take the phone call.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Redfyre found that he meant it.

At 6 p.m., with military precision, the phone rang.

“General Whitcliffe?” The super appeared startled, but recovered quickly. “How do you do, sir? Yes, you are through to the Cambridge CID. Superintendent MacFarlane here. Ex-KOYLI, sir, rank of major on demob . . . You are? You did? Very kind of you to say so, General.”

MacFarlane’s eyebrows danced a jig, signalling surprise and delight, across the desk. “You have the information? Excellent! I will take notes as we go and look forward to receiving the written copy in tomorrow’s post . . . Good of you, sir! Now, before we proceed, may I say I am not alone in the office. I have before me two of my best chaps, who are on the case and looking forward to hearing what you have to say. With your leave, I will include them in the conversation.”

The exchange lasted ten minutes. It seemed interminable to one trying to interpret the shifting creases that passed for expression on MacFarlane’s weathered features, and Redfyre was glad of the occasional repetition for their benefit of a vital word. “. . . tactical unit . . . distinguished conduct . . . medals all round . . . looting . . . hard labour . . . war psychosis . . .” The pencil flashed as he wrote down salient points. Redfyre noted that he covered three pages of his notebook. And finally, “Cede nullis! Yes, indeed, sir! Bad apple! We’ll ’ave ’im, sir!”

MacFarlane put down the telephone and his pencil and stared silently at the wall, his furrowed brow giving the lie to the cheery confidence of his leave-taking.

“Well, that was a bit of luck! Your query, Redfyre, got through to regimental HQ at a moment when the top brass were gathering for their end-of-year meeting. In the omnium gatherum hour before anyone had thought to pour out the sherry. Someone called out a name and good old General Whitcliffe took an interest. ‘Leave it to me, I know the characters concerned,’ he told them, and buzzed off with a couple of clerks to raise the dust of decades in the file room. And he did know. He was always a hands-on, leave-it-to-me type. And he was there, in South Africa, at the same time as our blokes. He was ordered south with Lord Roberts to clear up the mess after Magersfontein and rode into Kimberley knee to knee with him. Well, well!” he said again, annoyingly.

Unable to stay silent another moment, Redfyre asked quietly, “Are we looking for heroes or villains, sir? The words we caught were rather contradictory. And puzzling.”