“Serves me right for asking!” Detective Superintendent MacFarlane rolled his eyes in exaggerated exasperation. “Have you quite done, Redfyre? When I trip across my inspector roaming the station on a Sunday morning and I enquire as to what the blazes he’s doing here, that’s just me being polite—I don’t actually want him to tell me. I expect him to say, ‘Just on my way out. Sorry to disturb you, sir.’”

He eyed his smiling, nonchalant inspector and added, “The good folk of the town are in church or chapel; the lowlifes are sleeping off Saturday night’s junketing. Even criminals need a day of rest, and this is it. Bugger off home, Redfyre. I’m not in a mood to be treated to chapter and verse of your morning’s adventures with a dead tramp in a graveyard.”

“But we must consider the potential degrading of the crime scene, sir . . .”

“Who says it’s a crime scene? You can’t know yet. Oh, sit down for a minute and listen.” His attention drifted for a moment to a letter open on the top of a pile in his in-tray, and he said thoughtfully, “If you’d kept better control of your dog, our corpse would still be peacefully tucked up awaiting discovery next week by the Bat Botherers, or whatever those interfering old biddies are calling themselves these days.” He shook with silent laughter. “I kid you not! They’re booked in for an inspection of your St. Mary’s Church and its graveyard.” He looked briefly at the sheet. “Oh, look! It’s scheduled for Monday teatime. That’s tomorrow!” He savoured the imagined moment of discovery of the corpse by a group of very earnest and vocal city ladies. “Ho, ho! Can you hear the shrieks and screams? Can you imagine the flutterings and faintings?”

“A pipistrelle preservation team on manoeuvres?” Redfyre was charmed by the notion and exchanged a glance of boyish delight with his boss.

“Glad to hear you’re an admirer,” MacFarlane said cryptically. “Personally, I can’t abide ’em! All nasty little claws, sharp teeth and dribble.”

“And the bats they preserve are scarcely more attractive,” Redfyre supplied dutifully.

“You’re not wrong, sonny. And these pipi-what’s-its, they’ve got leathery wings—fair makes you shudder! If they all caught the bat plague and died off tomorrow, really, who’d notice?”