Ramsay became impatient and left the pub for the post office. Under the watchful eye of Elliot’s sister, he talked to the postmaster.

“Mr. Elliot,” he said carefully. “ When you first got involved with the Save Brinkbonnie campaign, did Henshaw ever approach you with money to stop your objections?”

Elliot looked up at him in wonder. “No,” he said. “ Even Henshaw knows me well enough to realise I’d not be taken in by anything like that.”

That was true, Ramsay thought. Fred Elliot was the last person Henshaw would approach to sabotage the Campaign. He was too obviously incorruptible.

“What about Charlie?” Ramsay asked. “ Did Henshaw put any pressure on Charlie?”

But at the name of his son Fred Elliot went to pieces. He began to cry and his sister stood between them, holding her apron wide as if she were protecting a child from a dangerous animal. She made strange shooing noises.

“Go away,” she said. “Can’t you see he’s no use to you? Leave him to grieve in peace.”

So Ramsay went back onto the street to continue his search for information.

In the churchyard preparations were beginning for Alice Parry’s funeral. An old man leaned on a spade, pressing it against the turf as if testing to see how hard a job he would have in digging the grave. He seemed daunted by the task because he laid the spade on the grass and began to walk away towards the back of the church.

“Excuse me!” Ramsay shouted, and the old man turned slowly to stare at him. “ Have you seen Mr. Kerr?”

The gravedigger looked at him, giving no sign that he had heard the question.

“You must know Mr. Kerr,” Ramsay said. “ He’s the choirmaster.”

“No,” the old man said. “I’ve not seen him today.” He walked off.

On the church porch, emerging at last to go back to the garage to work, Tom Kerr heard the exchange. He leaned against the closed door and waited until he heard the policeman move on before he scuttled home across the green, but he knew it would be impossible to hide from Ramsay for ever.

Ramsay moved up the Otterbridge Road towards the Henshaws’ bungalow. It was likely, he thought, that Colin Henshaw would be out during the day. Perhaps Rosemary Henshaw would speak to him more freely if he saw her alone. He turned into the drive and was relieved to see that the garage was empty. The Renault was parked on the gravel, but Henshaw’s Rover had gone.