Fry sighed. ‘I had a long conversation with the anthropologist. But we’re dealing with the academic world now – and tomorrow is Sunday.’

‘Damn.’

‘We’ll just have to try not to be impatient. Still, there are plenty of other things to do.’

‘Such as looking a bit more closely at Melvyn Hudson?’

‘I don’t think much of Mr Hudson,’ admitted Fry. ‘Apart from anything else, he treats Vernon Slack like shit. You’d never think he was the grandson of one of the owners.’

‘He treats Vernon like what?’

‘Shit. You know what shit is, Ben.’

‘Yes,’ said Cooper thoughtfully. ‘You mean cack.’

‘What on earth are you talking about now?’

‘Just a call I forgot to make. It was something Tom Jarvis said to me when I was up there last.’

‘The man with the dog that got shot? What’s the latest on that business?’

‘No further developments,’ said Cooper guiltily. Of course, he’d had no time to do anything about finding the person who shot Graceless, but that didn’t stop him feeling guilty.

‘“No further developments” is what we tell members of the public,’ said Fry. ‘It doesn’t work on me. Ben, I’d have thought you’d be more interested in it, being an animal lover and all that.’

‘It got put on the back burner a bit,’ admitted Cooper.

‘Well, take it off and stir it occasionally, will you? It creates a better impression. By the way, did you manage to make an appointment with what’s her name?’

Cooper looked at his watch. ‘I’m setting off now.’

‘Good.’

‘By the way,’ said Cooper. ‘Professor Robertson – he’s a widower.’

‘Oh?’

‘Don’t get excited – there were no suspicious circumstances. His wife died of cancer.’

As soon as Fry had gone, Cooper made the call he’d forgotten.

‘We’d be wasting our time,’ said the forensic scientist, when he’d stopped laughing. ‘All right, it might not have been exposed to the sun, but one thing you’ll definitely get inside a compost heap is bacterial activity. Any DNA present in cells from the gut lining will be degrading away in there and disappearing like – well, like shit off a shovel.’

In the background, his colleagues began laughing again.

‘It was just an idea,’ said Cooper.

‘Tell you what, DC Cooper, let us know when your suspect has produced some fresh evidence.’

With deliberate tenderness, Madeleine Chadwick reached out a hand to the rose and cupped it in her palm. Its petals were still damp from the dew, and it glittered against her fingers, blood red on her white skin.