“Here we go again!” Redfyre sighed and set off in pursuit. Nearing the bonfire, he saw silhouetted against it a crowd of about twenty ragged men. Silent, on their guard. Redfyre checked them for horned helmets and broadswords before walking up more circumspectly. When he was within hailing distance he called out in his usual bluff, officer’s voice: “Hello there! Please don’t, for God’s sake, feed my dog a sausage! He’s just had his dinner!”

“You’re too late, Redfyre! He’s already wolfed one down. How about you? Fancy a Newmarket banger? They’re good,” a gruff but friendly voice answered.

A tall shape broke from the herd and stepped forward. He was holding a fawning Snapper in his arms. The dog seemed enthralled by the close contact with the old and doubtless strongly scented fisherman’s smock tied up with string about the middle regions of his new friend—or kidnapper?

“By Gum, lad, you’ve taken your time! I was going to have to come into the nick under my own steam tomorrow morning and surrender!”

The vagrant company moved, muttering like a Greek chorus, closing ranks in a protective shield around the man in their midst. One word from him, and Redfyre—though probably not Snapper, he thought—would end up in the River Cam within seconds.

Only one thing for it. Shoulders back, head up, he scanned the group and quickened his pace towards them, like one going to meet his friends. “Well, well! Is this the moment I say, ‘Major Dunne, I presume?’” He stretched out a hand. “John Redfyre, Cambridge CID. Pleased to meet you at last. Any friend of my dog is a friend of mine,” he added. And many in the crowd knew he meant it.

Hesitant, the men looked to Dickie Dunne for a signal. He tucked Snapper under his left arm, put out his right and shook Redfyre’s hand. The company of tramps sighed in relief at the ancient exchange of peace signals and began to move about again. One of them, whom he recognised, appeared at his elbow with a sausage on a slice of bread. “Here you are, Inspector. I’ve put some mustard on that.”

It was indeed delicious. He washed it down with a bottle of ginger beer, conscious the whole time of Dickie Dunne’s eyes on him as he chirrupped on engagingly about the excellent weather and the quality of Mr. Musk of Newmarket’s pork sausages. His talk disguised the weight of MacFarlane’s expectation—command, in fact—that hung heavily on him: “As soon as apprehended, read the villain the riot act and wheel him in sharpish!”

“Major Dunne!” he said, “If you would care to call in at HQ tomorrow, since you seem to be free, you’ll find me at my desk from eight o’clock onwards. Time for a parley, I’m thinking.”