When at last he was out of the town, he drove first not to Brinkbonnie but to Heppleburn. When he had worked on an enquiry in Heppleburn he had met Jack Robson, a county councillor, and it occurred to him now that Jack might be willing to help with information about Henshaw. Jack would have no affection for land speculators and Ramsay was convinced of his integrity.

Robson lived in a small estate in 1930s council houses. The move to smokeless fuel had not yet reached the village and clouds of smoke hung over the chimneys. There were neat paths through the snow cleared from the pavements to the front doors. Two elderly women in long coats and furry ankle boots gossiped on the corner. As he drove past they looked at him, wondering who he was. Whenever he came to this estate Ramsay had the impression of going back in time. It was preserved in an atmosphere of fifties’ boredom and decency.

Through the living-room window of Robson’s house Ramsay saw the old man sitting by the fire. He was eating an early lunch. His feet were straight ahead of him on the hearth; there was a book on his knee and a plate of bread and cheese on the arm of the chair.

When Robson opened the door to the policeman, he was brushing crumbs of bread from the front of his jersey.

“Inspector Ramsay!” he said. He seemed more pleased to see the policeman than he ever had in the earlier investigation. “Why, man, it’s good to see you. Come in, come in. I’ll put the kettle on. Or perhaps you’d rather have a beer.”

Ramsay was touched by the welcome. It was not that Robson was lonely and needed visitors whoever they were. He was a busy man.

“Sit here,” he said. “ By the fire.”

Ramsay allowed himself to be brought tea. He refused the offer of food.

“Now,” Robson said. “ What can I do for you? You’re not just here to say hello. Do you need any help with moving into the cottage?”

“No,” Ramsay said. “It’s not that. I’m here for information. Does the name Colin Henshaw mean anything to you?”

Robson looked at him carefully. “Aye,” he said. “ You know he owns that land behind you?”

“Yes,” Ramsay said. “ So I understand. But it’s not about that. Not directly. He lives in Brinkbonnie.”

“That’s where Alice Parry lived,” Robson said. “You’re working on that case?”

Ramsay nodded.

“I knew her,” Robson said. “Through the council, you know. She was a great one for charity projects. I liked her.”

“She sold some land to Henshaw,” Ramsay said, “on the understanding that it would be used for cheap starter homes for local people. When the plans were drawn up, she discovered that he meant to build bigger, more expensive houses there.”

“That sounds the sort of trick Henshaw would play,” Robson said.