'Have you any transport?'
"Just a bicycle.'
'Wait for me here. I'll give you a lift over.'
Madden walked back the way he had come, on the dirt road, and continued along it until he found an even rougher track, which branched off through the fields towards the wooded ridge. The deep treads of tractor tyres were graven in mud that had dried and set like marble. Ditches a foot wide criss-crossed the rutted surface. At one point the track petered out entirely and the tractor marks continued across ploughed furrows until they picked up the path again.
Stackpole had been right. No car could have passed this way.
Feeling the sun like a weight on his back, Madden took off his jacket and walked steadily towards the ridge. Passing a small spinney he heard a jay call, and another answer. He was tempted to stop for a cigarette — the wood looked cool and inviting — but instead he pressed on and arrived at the foot of the ridge.
He saw that it was steeper on this flank than on the Highfield side and also less densely wooded. Standing in the shade of an oak tree he marked the upward zigzag line of a footpath as it traversed the slope above. He looked left and right along the hillside, but could see no sign of any other pathway in the vicinity.
The inspector began a careful examination of the area where he stood, scanning the ground in a gradually widening circle, and then extending his search along the base of the ridge at the woodline, looking for the tell-tale sign of a cigarette stub. He found several, but none were of the Three Castles brand.
The footpath up the slope proved equally bare of clues. The dusty surface bore the marks of blurred footprints — it looked like a well-used way — but none showed the distinctive damaged heel outline discovered in the stream bed. It took him twenty minutes to scale the ridge, and half that time to make the return journey.
He sat down then in the shade of the oak tree and took out his cigarettes. The green leaves overhead seemed to remind him of something: the image of Helen Blackwell in her patterned blouse came into his mind with a pleasant jolt. He lit a cigarette.
Far away, beyond the golden fields, a faint blur on the horizon showed where the downs began. He watched a hawk circling in the air above. Etched clear against the brilliant blue sky, it wheeled and wheeled in ever-tightening turns. Wheeled… and dropped!
Wheatstalks shivered and were still. The hunter had its prey.
Madden extinguished his cigarette. He'd yet to catch the scent of his.
In Oakley, the door of the Coachman's Arms stood open. Sergeant Gates was seated at one of the tables in the taproom. Smoke-blackened beams supported the grubby ceiling. The smell of stale beer and tobacco soured the air. The man Madden had seen standing in the doorway earlier lounged over the bar, his elbows resting on the stained surface. He was in his early thirties with black slicked-back hair and a knowing smile.
'This is Inspector Madden,' Gates said tonelessly.
'Sir, this is Mr Wellings, the landlord. I was about to question him.'
'Go ahead, Sergeant. Don't mind me.' Madden sat down.
Wellings directed his smile at the inspector. 'Still half an hour to opening time, I'm afraid. But if Sergeant Gates is prepared to turn a blind eye, I dare say I could draw you a pint.'
'No, thank you, Mr Wellings.' Madden didn't return the smile.
'We're interested in any customers you might have had over the weekend,' Gates began. 'Visitors, not locals.'
'Starting when?'
'Saturday.'
'I had the Farnham Wheelers Club through here at midday. About a dozen of them. They parked their bikes outside and came in for a drink. And there was a party of four in a motor-car. Two men and their wives, I reckon. They had the ploughman's lunch.'
'Was that all?' Gates looked up.
'No, there was another couple in the evening. Bloke on a motorbike with his girlfriend on the pillion.
Took me aside, he did, and asked me if I had a room for them. I told him I didn't run that kind of establishment. I did say he could try his luck in Tup's Spinney.' Wellings smirked.
Madden waited to be enlightened, but Gates went on: 'Sunday, then?'
'There were more. Quite a few. Four parties in cars between midday and two o'clock. Six men and four ladies, as I recall. Two of the parties were travelling together, heading for the coast. And then in the evening there was one other car with a man and his wife and their son. But all they wanted was directions.
They'd lost their way.'
'Did you see any other cars during the day? Travelling through the village, but not stopping?'
'Or motorcycles?' Madden said.
Wellings paused, frowning with exaggerated concentration.
He shook his head. 'No, I can't say that I did. But, then, I'm stuck in here during opening hours. Don't see too much of what's going on outside.'
The smile was back.
Sergeant Gates looked at Madden, who nodded.
'Thank you, Mr Wellings.' He closed his notebook.
'What did you think, sir?' he asked Madden outside.
'I thought he was lying.'
'I agree, but about what?' The sergeant wrinkled his nose. 'He's a right sow, if you'll pardon the expression. The last two landlords quit because they couldn't make the place pay. But somehow he manages to, and you have to ask yourself how.'
'After-hours drinks?'
'That, and he'll sell you a carton of fags at below market price, or so I've been told. We think he handles stolen goods, but we haven't been able to lay a finger on him thus far.'
'There's a list out of items taken from Melling Lodge. If any of them turn up locally, pull him in.
Never mind if there's a connection or not. Put him through it.'
'It'll be a pleasure, sir.'
Madden donned his jacket. 'What was that he said about the man with the motorbike and his girl?'
'He should try his luck in Tup's Spinney.' Gates gestured. 'That's over in the fields. Well known to the local lads and lasses, if you take my meaning.' He grunted. 'Wellings has an eye for the ladies himself, they say. Especially if it's someone else's wife. Nasty piece of work.'
They loaded the sergeant's bicycle into the back of the Humber, and Madden drove him the few miles to Craydon. Returning by the same road, and passing through Oakley, he saw Wellings on the pavement outside the village shop talking to a young woman with bobbed hair. He paused in his conversation and watched Madden's car as it went by.
Madden parked the Humber where he had found it, in the courtyard of the Rose and Crown in High field. As he climbed out of the car, the door of the pub opened and a lanky man in a city suit came out.
He had his tie loosened and his hat tipped back on his head.
'Mr Madden, is it? Reg Ferris. Daily Express.' He held out his hand. Madden shook it briefly.
They hadn't met before, but he knew Ferris's name and recalled that he was no friend of the chief inspector's.
'Bad business.' The reporter's darting eyes went from Madden to the car and back as though he hoped to glean some information from putting the two together. 'I'm told it was like an abattoir in there.'
Madden reached into the car for his jacket.
'We're waiting for Mr Sinclair. He's said he'll meet us.'
'Then I dare say he will.'
Ferris leaned against the car. He put his hands in his pockets. 'This is different, isn't it?' He watched to see how Madden would react.
'Different?'
'You've not had a case like this before — admit it.
Slaughtering a whole household, and for what? A few bits of silverware? It doesn't make sense.'
The inspector put on his jacket. 'Goodbye, Mr Ferris.' He walked away.
The reporter called after him: 'From what I hear you don't know where to start.'