“If you’re from DEFRA, you’ve got a bloomin’ cheek!” he roared, red-faced. “And who invited you to sit in my chair?”

The man got up slowly, aided by a gold-topped, old-fashioned cane. Alec watched in fascination as his legs lengthened beneath his body.

“Your dear wife admitted me,” said the man pleasantly. His accent was posher than the Queen’s, and he had a curious way of speaking; it sounded strangely muffled, as though the mouth were the wrong shape to make words properly. “Unfortunately, the dear lady feels unwell.”

Alec groaned inwardly. This bloke wasn’t from DEFRA. He had a good idea where he might be from, though.

“If you’ve hurt her …,” spluttered Alec.

“I assure you, she is not hurt. Well, not much,” the man replied, in his quiet, conspiratorial manner. “But I digress! It is you I have come to see. Allow me to introduce myself.”

He held out his right hand. Alec stared at it in undisguised horror. This chap appeared to have some sort of unfortunate excess hair problem. The proffered hand was more like a paw, covered in thick black hair, the blackened nails twisted into sharp, cruel-looking points.

“My name is Lucas Scale. I am not from DEFRA — the Department of Environment, Food, and Rural Affairs. I am,” he announced rather grandly, “a representative for the Ministry of Defense. Here is my card.” He held out a piece of plastic.

Alec stared at the man, ignoring the card.

“From up at Helleborine Halt?” he gulped.

Scale ignored him. “I have some questions I require you to answer.”

Alec feigned ignorance. “I thought that place was no longer any business of the government’s.”

“I’m afraid you have been misinformed,” said Scale smoothly. “I won’t, as you charming countrymen say, beat around the bush, so: WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH HIM?”

As the words blasted from Scale’s mouth, Alec Tate’s scant hair blew back from his forehead in a rush of putrid air.

“Wh …? I don’t know what you’re talking about, mate,” said the farmer, who, despite his fear, didn’t appreciate being shouted at in his own living room.

“Oh, I think you do, old man,” whispered Scale. “To refresh your memory, I believe he had the rather quaint name of Woody.”

“That ol’ dog, you mean,” said Alec, forcing a wavery smile. “I shot it. Worried my new sheep, see.”

Alec didn’t see it coming. Scale’s pawlike hand grabbed him roughly around the back of his neck.

“I’ll worry you in a minute,” said Scale. “So I’ll ask another question. Who paid you to look after my Wolven?”

“I dunno what you’re talking about,” squeaked Alec, now thoroughly scared.

Scale released his hold, sending Alec spinning across the room, knocking over the television, which he hadn’t finished paying for yet.

“Take me to the body, then,” snarled Scale. “Where’s it buried?”