Turnbull looked up nervously and saw them coming. He mouthed a curse, then turned and began to run towards the station. God knew where he thought he was going.

Fry broke into a sprint, but Kotsev easily outpaced her, his long legs covering the ground in seconds.

‘Politsia! Police!’

Catching up with him, Kotsev took hold of Turnbull’s arm and twisted it sharply behind his back, pushing his face into a wall.

‘My friend, you shouldn’t try to escape. You have to tell us what we want to know.’

Fry was frozen for a moment, shocked by Kotsev’s action. ‘Georgi!’

He looked at her, his eyes glinting, his jaw set as if he intended to face her down. She was glad Kotsev wasn’t wearing his gun.

‘Sergeant Kotsev, you don’t have any jurisdiction here. This isn’t Bulgaria.’

Slowly, he relaxed his grip on Turnbull’s arm, but didn’t let go completely. Nor did he stand back, so Turnbull’s face remained pressed against the stones.

‘You’re right, of course. You do things a little differently, Sergeant Fry. But I know the methods that work with these people.’

‘Let go of him,’ hissed Fry.

Another moment passed. Finally, Kotsev stood back, and smiled.

‘I apologize. I have no jurisdiction. This is your suspect.’ He turned Turnbull gently away from the wall and pretended to dust down his clothes. ‘I apologize to you, too, my friend. I intended you no harm. I hope you feel comfortable, and that you are well enough to be questioned by my colleague.’

Turnbull didn’t look reassured. In fact, he looked more frightened than ever at the sudden change. Now, he had no idea what was happening.

‘What the hell is this?’

‘You are Mr Darren Turnbull?’ said Fry.

‘Yes.’

‘Are you the owner of a blue Vauxhall Astra hatchback, X registration?’

‘Yes, why?’

‘Were you in the village of Foxlow on Saturday night?’

Turnbull’s mouth dropped open. His brain still seemed to be working, but so slowly that no connection was being made with his vocal cords.

‘Sir?’

‘I can’t tell you,’ he said.

Kotsev had been standing by quietly, but now made a sudden gesture. It might only have been impatience he couldn’t restrain, but the suggestion of imminent violence communicated itself to Turnbull.

‘No, I really can’t tell you,’ he said. ‘I’d be in big trouble. Big, big trouble.’

‘Let’s all go back to the station, then,’ said Fry. ‘And we’ll talk about which sort of trouble you’d rather be in, Mr Turnbull.’

In the mortuary, the pathologist turned to Kessen and Cooper. ‘The bruise on his temple was the only physical injury. It wasn’t enough to kill him, but it could have caused mild concussion.’

‘There’s a little more to it than that,’ said Kessen.