But the chief inspector decided the matter was too serious to let any chance slip. Specially after what happened at Stonehill. He said I should ring you first thing in the morning.'
They stood in silence. Booth drew on his cigarette.
He glanced nervously at the inspector.
'What do you think, sir?'
Madden glanced down the lane towards the shed.
Then his gaze swept the surrounding fields and orchards. Finally he spoke: 'I want to look for a footprint. He might have left one somewhere on this track. Check the puddles.'
They formed themselves into a line and walked back slowly towards the cottage, eyes cast down. Billy noted several patches of mud on his side of the lane, but none bore any footmarks. He was almost level with the garden gate when he noticed that Madden, who was walking between them, in the middle of the track, had stopped. He was down on his haunches, looking at the ground in front of him. Booth had seen him, too.
'Have you found something, sir?'
The inspector's muttered reply was unintelligible.
He was peering closely at the saucer of dried mud before him.
'Fetch me some grass, would you, Sergeant?'
Booth tugged a handful from the verge and brought it over to him. Madden fashioned a makeshift brush from the blades and began to flick surface dust and grit from the mud base. He bent down and blew away the dirt. Billy crouched beside him. Gradually the outline of a footmark appeared. First the sole, only lightly sketched on the crusty soil. Then the full print.
Madden blew away more loose grains of earth. The deeper impression of the heel grew clear. Billy saw that the outer rim of the oval shape had a piece missing. He heard the soft sigh that issued from the inspector's lips.
The young man never forgot the scene. He carried with him for the rest of his life the image of Madden as he glanced up and met the sergeant's rapt gaze.
And in later years, whenever the scent of harvest apples came to him he would hear the inspector's murmured words: 'It's him. It's Pike.'
Booth parked the car in the forecourt of the village pub beside a sign depicting St George slaying the dragon. The three men walked quickly down the street, Billy and the sergeant having to stretch their legs to keep up with Madden's long strides. Knowlton seemed like a busy centre. Besides the usual butcher, baker and general store the narrow street boasted a dressmaker and an antique dealer, side by side, and further down a shop that sold bric-a-brac. Billy barely had time to glance in the windows as they swept by.
As though in keeping with the ambitions of the place, the village bobby maintained an office in the front room of a cottage at the end of the street.
Packard, a man in his late forties with greying hair and worry-lines etched deep into his broad forehead, showed no surprise at seeing Booth. But his eyes widened on learning the inspector's identity, and when Madden told him why they were there the constable paled visibly.
'We think this man Pike may live in the district.'
Packard opened the middle drawer of his desk and took out a copy of the police poster. 'This arrived yesterday, sir. I can't say I know this man.'
'Have a look at these, would you?' Madden passed him the two artist's sketches he'd brought with him.
'And I need to use your telephone urgently.'
Billy watched Packard's expression as he studied the drawings and saw at once that he didn't recognize the face. The constable had vacated his desk so that Madden could make his call.
'He's not a man who draws attention to himself.'
Madden spoke with the telephone held to his ear.
He'd placed a call to Stonehill via the Folkestone exchange. 'You won't find him buying a round of drinks in the pub. He probably has no friends.'
Packard shook his head. 'I saw one of these in the newspaper today. I'm sorry, sir…' He handed the sketches back. The inspector began speaking into the phone, but the conversation didn't last long, and he hung up.
'Mr Sinclair's not back from London yet. They're expecting him shortly.'
He looked at his wristwatch. Billy instinctively did the same. It was a quarter to one.
'Let's see if we can work out the timing of this.'
Madden addressed Booth, who sat in one of two straight-backed chairs placed in front of the desk.
Packard had taken the other. Billy stood behind them.
'Pike must have gone to Rudd's Cross on Saturday morning to prepare for his trip to Ashdown Forest.
Suppose Biggs came on him in the shed and they got into an argument. Whatever happened, it ended with Pike killing him, and once he'd done that he had to dispose of Mrs Troy as well. He couldn't afford to leave a witness to his presence there.'
The inspector lit a cigarette. Booth was already smoking.
'Now the sensible thing would have been to clear up and move out during the weekend. But we know he went to Ashdown Forest. He's not a sensible man, not rational in the way you or I would understand it.
He does what he's driven to do.
'So let's say he returned to Rudd's Cross on Sunday night. He could have been back by midnight and that would have given him several hours of darkness in which to clean the shed and dispose of Biggs's body.
What about the silver?' Madden frowned, pursing his lips. 'I think he took that, too. He likes to lay false trails. He's tried it before. His father was a gamekeeper, you know.' The inspector's glance was still on Booth. 'My guess is he's buried them somewhere, Biggs and the silver both.'
The sergeant extinguished his cigarette. 'But where could he have gone on his bike from Rudd's Cross?' he asked. 'There was an alarm out all over Kent.
Motorcycles were being stopped on the road right through Monday morning. They're still making random checks.'
Madden nodded. 'Not far, is the answer. And he must have travelled by back roads and lanes. He knows the district. I'm convinced he lives close by. Whenever he wanted to use the motorcycle he had to get to Rudd's Cross and if he lived too far away it wouldn't be practical. They don't know him there, and if Constable Packard's right he isn't well known in Knowlton either. We think he has a job that involves travelling. Something that takes him around the country, in the Home Counties, at least.'
Listening to them, Billy longed to make a contribution.
He was jealous that Madden addressed his remarks to Booth. Of course, the sergeant was an experienced detective, and the way he'd been able to read the signs at Rudd's Cross must have impressed the inspector. But the young constable felt left out, just as he had at Highfield that first day.
Madden glanced at his watch again. 'I don't know about you,' he said, 'but we had no breakfast. Let's get a quick bite in the pub, then I'll come back and ring Stonehill again. I must speak to Mr Sinclair.'
He was already on the move, rising and striding from the office. The others followed him out into the street, where the inspector carried on talking over his shoulder to Booth and Packard. Billy hung back.
'What's worrying me is Pike may decide to leave the district, just up stakes and go, and we'll have to start afresh. He may not be rational always, but he's no fool. He must know that once Mrs Troy's body is discovered the police will be looking for Grail…"
He walked on, his voice fading.
Billy stood rooted to the spot.
He stared at what was before his eyes.
'Constable!'
Billy started. He looked round. Madden was standing some way up the street looking back.
Billy beckoned to him. His heart was racing.
Madden put his hands on his hips, the gesture underlining his impatience. But he started back, walking rapidly with the others trailing in his wake.
'Sir!' Billy called out, when he was still a few paces off. 'Sir, look!'
The inspector came to a halt beside him. He followed with his eyes the direction Billy was indicating.