‘It’s a minor detail,’ said DC Chris Gibbs impatiently. He and DC Colin Sellers were inside Ruth Bussey’s lodge house. Kombothekra had told them to have a thorough look round. Neither knew what he was looking for. ‘She’s either fit to split or she’s not—end of story. If she’s got nice legs, nice tits, a nice arse, nice face . . .’

‘I’m not saying it’d be a deal-breaker,’ said Sellers.

‘A hunchback, false teeth and leprosy wouldn’t be a deal-breaker for you. You’d hump anything.’ Gibbs glanced towards the open front door, outside which an unhappy Malcolm Fenton, landlord of Blantyre Lodge, was waiting not so patiently to lock up. Under his breath, Gibbs launched into his favourite Sellers impression: ‘“All right, love, wipe yourself, your taxi’s here; it’s four in the morning, love, pay for yourself . . .” ’

‘If you’re too shy to answer the question, that’s fine.’ Sellers patted him on the back. ‘I understand, mate.’

‘I’ve answered the question. I don’t fucking care! Why don’t you ask Muggins?’

Fenton—or Muggins, as Sellers and Gibbs called him, on account of it being how he most often referred to himself—appeared in the hallway. ‘I’ve had about enough of this,’ he said. ‘Ruth isn’t here and she’s done nothing wrong. If you think I’m going to stand here listening to your foul language while you violate her privacy, you’ve—’

‘Sorry, Mr Fenton,’ said Sellers amiably. ‘I’ll make sure he puts a fiver in the swear-box when we get back to the nick.’

‘You don’t give a fuck what I think,’ Gibbs muttered, once Fenton had withdrawn. ‘You want me to ask you. Go on, then, let’s hear it. What is all this shit?’ He picked up one of Ruth Bussey’s wire animals and grimaced at it before putting it down again.

‘I don’t like half-measures,’ said Sellers. ‘Brazilian’s fine, natural and wild’s also good—the wilder the better. Anything in between . . .’

‘What? You’d say no?’

‘I’m just saying, I like the extremes. All or nothing.’

‘Half-measures is fine by me, as long as she’s fit,’ said Gibbs. ‘Anyway, a Brazilian’s not nothing—it’s a landing strip. You mean a Hollywood.’

‘A what? You don’t know what you’re talking about, mate.’

Gibbs shook his head.