“What would it take to persuade the council to appeal to the high court?” Ramsay asked.

The officer shrugged. “A widespread press campaign. A number of well-attended meetings, a petition, noise, demonstrations.” He gave a little smile. “ There are county council elections in May,” he said. “I think the councillors would be prepared to listen.”

“How long have the villagers got to persuade the council to appeal?”

“A month,” the officer said. “ They have until the end of the month.”

“I don’t understand,” Ramsay said, “why there wasn’t more fuss when the plans were originally proposed.”

“Well I believe there was some confusion in the community about the exact nature of the development. And, of course, there are people who don’t bother to read the planning notices in the local paper.”

“Is Henshaw involved in other developments in the county?”

“Oh, yes,” the officer said. “There have been half a dozen applications in the past two years.”

“Have most of them been successful?”

“Yes,” the officer said. “ I believe five out of six were allowed. The most recently completed was at Wytham.”

“Henshaw built those, did he?”

Ramsay drove through Wytham on his way from Heppleburn to Otterbridge and had seen the buildings grow. The estate was surrounded by a stone wall with pillars, which made him think of a decorative prison. Each house had a mock-Victorian conservatory. They had seemed to him ridiculously expensive, but all had been sold.

“Is that sort of success rate usual?” he asked.

The officer paused. “ There may have been a couple of surprising decisions,” he said, “but Henshaw is very clever, you know. His developments are relatively small and not designed to upset existing communities, so it’s hard for objectors to get the level of support they need.”

“You never suspected corruption?” Ramsay asked. “ Henshaw doesn’t have any special friends on the planning committee?”

“Oh, no,” the officer said. “ There’s never been any question of that sort of dishonesty.”

But Ramsay would have believed anything of Henshaw, and the planning officer was a loyal civil servant. He would hardly pass on rumours of fraud. Ramsay needed other, less partial information.

The council offices were stuffy, overheated, with waves of warm air from the open doors into the corridor where Ramsay was walking, and he reached the street with relief. Outside it was still cold and grey. There had been an inch of snow overnight and in the market square people stood in groups and talked about the weather. He collected his car from the police station, then was stuck for twenty minutes in crawling traffic.