Glad then for permission to return to the safety of her flat, she sauntered away. Her son had paid for her telephone, and she rarely used it, so it was with some difficulty that she was connected to the ambulance service. When the call was over, she felt quite proud of herself and waited, still in the dark, to watch for the flashing lights and noise of the ambulance. With all that commotion she was sure her foxes would not return that night.

George woke up in hospital from a deep sleep that had more to do with tranquilisers and painkillers than peace of mind, to the antiseptic smell of the ward and two women on chairs by the side of the bed. Molly had insisted that Claire Bingham be told of George’s injuries. It must, she said, be relevant. George had decided to stay in Bristol for another day because of a promising lead to the enquiry. Nothing trivial would keep him in the town. The weather map showed there was a big storm brewing, and only something important would keep him from the seawatching.

Wargan had given his blessing to Claire’s trip to the city, more, she thought, because he hoped she would make a fool of herself than because he believed anything could be achieved.

“Go if you like,” he said. “But I can’t see that it’s relevant.”

“Palmer-Jones was working for the Franks family,” she said. “And now he’s the victim of a hit-and-run accident.”

“We’ve got our man,” he insisted. “We’ll take him out to the cottage and search it properly by daylight.”

“You’ll have to charge him soon,” Claire said, but Wargan was convinced that they would have evidence to convict him by the end of the day.

The ward sister regarded the group round Palmer-Jones with suspicion and hostility. Usually visitors would not be allowed on the ward in the morning. Only the inspector’s warrant card had persuaded her to let them in at all. Now they were huddled together in serious conversation, blocking the way of the domestic staff, causing jealousy and resentment in those patients whose relatives had been turned away. Once she went up to the group and vented her anger.

“You can’t stay much longer,” she said. “ Mr. Palmer-Jones has had a nasty shock. He’s not a young man anymore. Besides, the doctor will be here to see him soon.”

But the women took no notice of her, and the conference, the sharing of information and ideas, continued. George sat up in bed, looking quite unfamiliar in hospital pyjamas. His face was badly bruised.

“What happened?” Claire Bingham asked. “Was it an accident?”

“No,” George said. “It was no accident.” He explained about the cheque sent from Cranmers to Greg Franks. “Someone thought I needed scaring off.”

“But who?” Claire said. “Not Duncan James. He wouldn’t organise a thing like that.”