She remembered the movements that crept and rustled closer, the reek of booze and violence. She was waiting for the taunting laughter, for that familiar voice to break into her mind, coarse and slurring in its Birmingham accent. ‘She’s a copper.’

Some form of communication seemed to take place between the men around her. One of them stared at her keenly, as if he knew her, or would know her again if he saw her.

And then they slipped away through the trees as quickly as they’d come. Fry breathed a sigh of relief, and realized that her hand was starting to cramp where it had been gripping the handle of her ASP.

She thought of calling in the incident. The group had been armed with baseball bats and pickaxe handles, after all. But her reluctance stemmed from her fear of being a bad witness, a dread of expending her colleagues’ time and effort for no worthwhile result.

She also knew she’d recognized the first man, just as he’d recognized her. She felt sure he was the same hunt steward who had stared at her on Tuesday as she’d waited for the hunt to go by.

But there was a difference. On Tuesday, she hadn’t been able to recall where she knew him from. Her powers of recognition had failed her.

This time, she knew exactly who he was.

‘Diane?’ The voice was Cooper’s, instantly reassuring.

‘I’m here.’

‘Are you all right?’

‘Did you see them?’ she said. ‘The hunt stewards?’

‘No,’ said Cooper.

She stared at him, not sure whether she could believe him. Whose side was he on, after all? The realization that she had no one she could trust made her suddenly, irrationally angry.

‘Why did I come to this place? Why do I put up with these people?’ She gestured at the people down on the road, at the hunt kennels, at the whole world in general. ‘Horse-eating, fox-hunting, baseball-bat-wielding Neanderthals.’

Cooper gazed after her in amazement as she strode off. ‘That’s a bit unfair.’

‘I don’t care.’

‘Diane,’ called Cooper, ‘don’t you want to know? Becky Hurst has come up with some information for us.’

Fry stopped. ‘And?’

‘We have to get moving, if we want to make a quick arrest.’

Chapter Thirty-two

THE A52 INTO Derby had been re-named Brian Clough Way some years ago, creating a fume-laden memorial to a legendary manager of Derby County Football Club. At the mere mention of his name, many people around here still shook their heads and said he should have been the England boss, if there’d been any justice in the world. But what a pity about the drink problem.