‘Your father?’

‘Yes. It’s been abandoned since 1968, you know. It always flooded badly, and my dad said it was too dangerous to go down. So we locked it up and let the cows graze over it. When we had cows, that is.’ Massey gave him an odd look, curiously hopeful, almost plaintive. ‘Why? Did you want to have a look what it’s like inside an ROC post?’

‘No, thanks,’ said Cooper. ‘I’ve seen one.’

‘AND YOU’RE SURE that Mr Massey was telling the truth when he said he’d never met Michael Clay?’ asked Fry when he phoned her.

‘Yes. I’m certain of it. He never batted an eyelid. Besides . . .’

‘What?’

‘Well, if there’s a family feud involved here, I’m just not seeing it, Diane. Les Clay and Peter Massey were the two men who might have been considered responsible for Jimmy Hind’s death in 1968. But Clay died years ago, leaving Massey as the last man standing, so to speak. And Jimmy Hind doesn’t have any family still around to worry about it.’

‘Yes, I see what you mean. There’s no logic in it. No logic that would make Michael Clay either an obvious target as a victim, or a man looking for revenge either. Neither scenario fits.’

‘And yet . . .’ said Cooper. ‘There’s still something I’m missing.’

‘So what next?’ asked Fry.

Now it was Cooper’s turn to look at his watch. ‘I’ve got to get myself a new cat.’

COOPER HAD NEVER actually had to choose a cat for himself before. There had been plenty of them around the farm over the years, of course, but they’d just sort of appeared under their own initiative, and the main problem had been controlling their numbers.

At Welbeck Street, he’d inherited Randy with the flat, courtesy of Mrs Shelley, who encouraged strays without any favour or distinction. Judging from Randy’s battered looks, there certainly hadn’t been any selection process based on cuteness, or the potential for posing as a cover model for calendars and birthday cards.

There were all kinds of animals at the Fox Lane Sanctuary – dogs and cats, of course, a few horses and donkeys, even a pig and a couple of sheep. He was surprised to find an injured owl in an aviary, its feathers ruffled miserably, a broken wing hanging at an unnatural angle. It was a tawny, just like the one he’d heard calling again last night. It had woken him in the early hours of the morning with its hunting cry, a sound that would strike fear into some helpless prey.

Cooper stopped in front of a loose box, eyeing an old horse who stared straight back at him unblinkingly.

‘Hello. What’s your name?’

He glanced aside to look at a notice on the wall next to the loose box. It said: ‘This horse has been ill-treated. Watch her – she bites.’