Ramsay walked down the Otterbridge Road, intending to collect his car, but he saw Colin Henshaw in his uniform of waxed jacket and Wellingtons ahead of him and followed him on, past the Castle Hotel towards the sea. A group of women was standing on the pavement, some with pushchairs and children, waiting for the school bus to bring the older children back from Otterbridge. Ramsay became aware that they were excited, angry. There were raised voices. As he walked on down the hill behind Henshaw, he saw the object of their hostility. In the Tower meadow, between the house and the dunes, a surveyor and two assistants were working with a theodolite and a tape. The women saw Henshaw and surrounded him, blocking his path to the field.

“You can’t start building,” one of them said. “Not until the council’s come to a decision about taking an appeal to the high court.”

“I’m not building,” he said.

“What are you doing then?” She was a farmer’s daughter, fearless, unintimidated.

“That’s my business,” he said.

“No,” she said. She was redheaded. “ It’s our business. Village business.”

He pushed past the women and climbed the stile into the field. He stood, calf-deep in mud, separated from the farmer’s daughter by the fence.

“If you don’t like my plans for the village,” he said quietly, “ what are you going to do about it? Murder me to keep your precious village intact? That’s what Charlie Elliot did to Alice Parry after all.”

“You don’t know that,” the woman cried. “ It’s your greed that was responsible for her death!”

“Greed!” he shouted back. “ You’re a fine one to talk about greed. Don’t tell me that you’re worried about scenic beauty. The only thing that bothers you is that a new development would bring your house prices down.”

The redhead saw the school bus coming down the hill and controlled herself.

“I’m not going to descend to your level by having a public slanging match,” she said. “ But you’ll not get away with it. I can promise you that.”

The children spilled out of the bus and the mothers moved away.

Ramsay walked on down the street to the stile.

“Mr. Henshaw!” he called. “ Could I have a word, please?”

The builder turned and scowled, but moved back towards the fence.

“What do you want?” he said. “I’ve had enough disruptions for one day. I’ve got to make a living. Not like those bloody women with their fancy talk.”

“Have you heard that we’ve found Charlie Elliot?” Ramsay asked.

“No,” Henshaw said. “ Does that mean you’re all going to go away and leave us in peace?”

“Not exactly,” Ramsay said. “ He was murdered. He was found by Mr. Grey on the land behind your house.”

Henshaw said nothing.