Branson leaned forward, frowning quizzically. ‘Fraulein Andrea and Fraulein Julia? What kind of names are those for hens?’

‘You have a problem with them?’

He grinned. ‘Whatever floats Bruno’s boat, I suppose. His U-boat.’

Grace shook his head at the comment about his German-born son. ‘Not funny.’

Branson raised his arms apologetically. ‘Yeah, sorry. So, this chicken husbandry thing, does it have a forensic application?’

Grace grinned. ‘I’m taking a day’s leave – OK? I’m owed a ton of leave. What is your problem?’

The DI shook his head. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace, Head of Homicide for Surrey and Sussex Police, takes day off to learn how to look after chickens.’

‘And your issue is, exactly?’

Branson laughed. ‘Farmer Grace.’ He shook his head, smiling. ‘I can just see you rocking up to the next murder investigation in green wellies, chewing on a piece of straw.’

‘And what if I do?! Which do you think came first – the chicken or the egg?’ Grace asked.

‘The rooster, obviously. Typical male.’

It was Grace’s turn to smile. Then his phone rang.

It was Alison Vosper.

‘Ma’am,’ he said respectfully. ‘Can you hold for just one moment, I’ve got a weird-looking creature in my office.’

He waved a dismissing hand at Branson.

Branson took the hint and headed to the door.

‘OK, I’m with you now, ma’am.’

‘Nothing too nasty, I hope, Roy?’

‘Just one of those bitey insects you get this time of year, but it’s gone now.’

When Alison Vosper had been an ACC at Sussex, one of Grace’s colleagues had nicknamed her No. 27, after a sweet and sour dish on the local Chinese takeaway menu that they frequently used on long shifts. You never knew quite what you were going to get with her. Sweet or sour. But something in her tone indicated sweet right now.

‘I’m calling you with an update,’ she said. ‘I’ve already spoken to your Chief Constable to put her in the picture. I’ve also raised this with the Commander in charge of Anti-Corruption in the Met and he’s picking this up straight away as a matter of urgency.’

‘Thank you, ma’am,’ Grace said. But the news didn’t fill him with elation, rather the reverse – it made him feel flat. However much he despised Pewe, and all corrupt police officers, the knowledge that what he had told her would destroy Pewe’s career – and probably the rest of his life – was still a tough one on his conscience. As well as Cleo’s warning words from last night.

First dig two graves.

And the knowledge that all he had told her was on the word of Guy Batchelor, a disgraced former police officer in prison, and the contents of his notebook.

But despite all Batchelor had done wrong, he trusted him on this.

Enough to gamble his career on, should this backfire?

He just hoped, as Guy had assured him, that the genie was already out of the bottle, and Pewe was on borrowed time.