For thieving, Hirsch thought. We need to put that murder weapon in his hands. We need Adam’s testimony. Just then Landy’s mobile chirped. She checked it, muttered, ‘Didn’t think I’d get reception out here.’

Hirsch guessed. ‘The boss wants you.’

‘Brawl in the main bar of the Wheatsheaf.’

‘You go, I’ll finish up here.’

When he was alone, Hirsch photographed the contents of the cabinet and locked it again. He took the long way back to Tiverton; called in at the little house on Bitter Wash Road.

‘Thought I’d wish you happy new year for tomorrow.’

‘On account of you’ll be busy,’ Wendy said. She took his arm and steered him down the corridor. ‘You need a shower.’

‘On the nose?’

‘Scrambled eggs and bacon when you’re done.’

Their relationship was oftentimes brisk, Hirsch barely getting a word in. ‘Breakfast food?’

‘It’ll get you through the night.’

When he stepped out of the ensuite bathroom, a towel around his waist, the spare uniform he kept hanging in her wardrobe had been draped over the bed. No sign of that day’s sweat-stained mess: no doubt soaking in the laundry sink.

The eggs and bacon washed down by strong black tea, the imprint of Wendy’s lips on his, Hirsch headed for town. Checking Kitchener Street automatically as he passed the shop, he saw a silver station wagon and a journalist in a short-sleeved white shirt interviewing Mr Cromer. Good luck with that, Hirsch thought. He’d been hoping the vultures were gone for good, but maybe pony mutilation had unexpected shelf-life.

As he parked outside the police station, the reporter came running up. ‘Constable Hirschhausen? If I might have a word?’

‘Sorry,’ Hirsch said, ‘I have things to do.’

‘Any nearer to catching whoever mutilated Mrs Washburn’s horses?’

I am, actually, Hirsch thought.

‘It’s been said that the same person was responsible for the killings out on Hamel Road.’

Hirsch turned around in the act of unlocking the front door. A car shot into town, saw the HiLux in the driveway of the police station, lurched to an anxious crawl and trundled through as if butter wouldn’t melt in its mouth.

‘Your views on that, Constable Hirschhausen?’

‘A busy night coming up, you understand,’ Hirsch said, staring at the reporter, who faltered, seeing something daunting in him. Hirsch nodded. ‘Have a good night, you’ll be busy yourself,’ he said, and disappeared inside the police station.

Airing his office and the rooms he lived in, Hirsch was catching up on emails and phone calls when a text came in from Gemma Pitcher: C u tomorrow afternoon.

He replied: C u then and went out to keep the peace.