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stopped.”
    “Fair enough.”
    A prosecution under the Dogs (Protection of Livestock) Act of 1953 could not proceed without the written consent of either the Chief Constable, the owner of the livestock worried or the occupier of the land where it happened. Accordingly, I obtained a written statement from Mr Fairclough which I wrote in my notebook, and incorporated his willingness to authorise proceedings, if the dog was not destroyed.
    Having attended to both that matter and the massivetumbler of whisky, I adjourned to the village and walked to Valley View. It was an old cottage with Yorkshire sliding windows and a rough rustic porch overgrown with honeysuckle . There was a green front door and green woodwork, but the door was standing slightly ajar. I knocked.
    “Come in,” called a voice from the depths. “First on the right.”
    “It’s the policeman,” I announced as I pushed open the door.
    “It’s about time you called to see me,” he said even before I entered the room. “Your predecessor always popped in when he was passing. Made himself a coffee and one for me too. Regular caller, he was.”
    I pushed open the door of the living-room and found Mr Chapman before the cosy fire. A black labrador lay curled at his feet, wide-awake, and its dark eyes watched me as I entered the room. It flapped its tail on the fireside rug as I walked in, then closed its eyes.
    “He likes you,” said the man. “Sit down, Officer.”
    He was reading a heavy volume on the History of World War I and placed it on his occasional table to greet me.
    “Sidney Chapman,” he said. “Forgive me not getting up. I leave the door ajar so I can shout at visitors.”
    “P.C. Rhea,” I introduced myself and shook his hand. “I’m fairly new here.”
    “I knew we’d got a fresh bobby and was hoping you’d pop in. I like company, you see, being stuck here all day. I lost the use of these legs eight or nine years ago. Car accident—I’m lucky to be alive, they tell me. Look, if you want a coffee, the kettle’s in the kitchen …”
    He was a neat man in his middle fifties, I reckoned, with a head of sleek hair which was neatly trimmed. His face was narrow and sharp, with prominent cheek-bones and just a hint of pallor. He wore spectacles and seemed an intelligent man. I wondered how he’d earned his living before the accident. He was cheerful and affable and I liked him immediately.
    “No thanks,” I said, “but I’ll get you one …”
    “No, I’ve just had the electricity meter reader in, he had a coffee with me. Thanks—but next time …”
    “Mr Chapman.” Sorrowfully, I had to notify him of the unpleasant purpose of my visit. “I’m afraid I’m not here on a social visit. It’s business.”
    “Oh dear, something wrong?” he looked at me with concern .
    “I’m afraid so. I’m sorry we have to meet like this, but there’s been a nasty case of sheep-worrying at Grange Farm, Mr Fairclough’s place. He tells me a black labrador has been wandering around his fields.”
    “But Nero wouldn’t harm a fly!”
    At the sound of his name, the dog’s head rose and his ears became alert as his eyes scrutinised the man for signs of further activity. His tail thumped the rug as he waited for developments.
    “Has he been out this morning or this afternoon?”
    “No, Mr Rhea, he hasn’t. I can swear to that.”
    “Your front door was open—could he have gone out without you knowing? Maybe sneaked out for ten minutes and back again before you realised it?”
    He thought carefully, then shook his head.
    “No, I could swear to it. I’ve been here all morning, and he’s been with me. He never leaves me, Mr Rhea, unless our Ian takes him out for a run. He’s my sole companion during the day…. he’s not a killer.”
    “Do you mind if I examine him?” I hated to imply that I didn’t accept his word.
    “No, of course not.”
    I approached the waiting dog and noticed his brown eyes upon me, but a word from Mr