“Bloody reporters,” Hunter said.

“I want you to go to Wytham,” Ramsay said, “to talk to a woman there.” He was torn. He would have liked to go to Wytham himself to see the woman Robson had suggested. He was still committed to the theory that Henshaw was a blackmailer. But it was more important, he thought, to stay in Brinkbonnie, to be accessible if one of the community leaders there wanted to speak to him. He explained Robson’s idea to Hunter and was aware immediately of the sergeant’s scepticism.

“Talk to her,” he said. “Be discreet. Just ask how she planned the campaign against Henshaw and why it came to nothing in the end. Find out if she was really active all the way through. You might need to talk to other people in the place, too. If she makes some excuse for having dropped out of the fight, press her. Be sympathetic. Give her the chance to tell you. Ask if Henshaw made any contact with her.”

Go teach your grandmother to suck eggs, Hunter thought, but he said nothing. He was glad of the excuse to get out of Brinkbonnie. He hated the lack of activity and the constant wind. A few new houses would be an improvement, he thought. They might even liven the place up.

He found Jane Massie’s house very easily. It was, as Jack Robson had said, close to the new housing estate on the opposite side of the main road, backing onto open countryside. As he parked, Hunter looked at the development with some envy. If he won the pools, he thought, he wouldn’t mind living in a place like that. Somewhere with a bit of class and style. In contrast, the Massies’ house was not to his taste. It was built of grey stone, square and solid. The window frames needed a lick of paint.

When Hunter knocked at the door, there was no reply, and he found Jane Massie in the long back garden feeding hens. She was a short woman, rather overweight, probably in her early thirties. He was surprised. From Ramsay’s description, he had expected someone older. She was wearing a calf-length dress in a patterned corduroy and the sort of shoes with buckles he had only seen on children. He dismissed her in his mind as an aging hippie, but all the same he found her attractive. Her face was young and very pretty. When she saw him, she hitched up her skirt and climbed out of the hen run to meet him. Two small boys in dungarees appeared from the hen house and clambered after her.

She did not seem shocked to see a stranger wandering through the back garden. She seemed, to Hunter, to have great self-confidence. He knew few women like her and was nervous.

“Hello,” she said. “Can I help you?” She came, as he had expected, from the south.

The boys hid behind her.