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down the dune. ‘Ah, boys, there you are,’ he cried as he came hurrying towards us. ‘I’ve been looking for you all over. Terrible news! The whole town in a state of shock!’ He brushed sand off his trousers. ‘This poor woman. We are a peace-loving community, not used to violence.’ MT was out of breath. A man in a panic, I thought. ‘I suppose Marshall’s on board – eh?’
    â€˜We haven’t seen him,’ I said, and he couldn’t hide that it was a blow. I turned to Emlyn.
    â€˜He’ll be sleeping it off,’ Emlyn said. ‘We over–indulged.’
    â€˜Had a skinful, eh?’ MT was mopping his forehead. ‘You delivered him safe and sound?’
    â€˜Well of course I did. Didn’t you look in his room?’
    MT nodded. ‘Must have slipped out of the house early on.’ He looked back towards the town. ‘His mother – you know what mothers are – running around like an old hen.’ He turned and looked hard at the dune. ‘Well – I’ll stroll back, maybe see him on the way.’ But he went charging up the dune and had to pause, winded, at the top. Without a word, Emlyn and I went after him.

VI
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    Maelgwyn Police Station was a yellow-brick building among old stone houses, off the High Street. It was there we headed after Idwal Morton had met us on the promenade. ‘MT,’ he’d said, ‘It’s Marshall. They’ve got him in the police station.’
    Idwal Morton kept up with us all the way and was even able to run up the station steps ahead of us. There he stood, arms out wide, a different man now that he was out of doors, livelier, less contained.
    â€˜I advise care and caution, MT,’ he said, breathing hard. He had spent a great deal of time in the courts and was fond of legal phrases. ‘What is said, is noted down, may be used in evidence...’
    â€˜Get out of the way, Idwal,’ MT said. ‘I can handle this. We are going in for my son, and if we don’t get him we’ll take this building apart, brick by brick.’
    Emlyn looked at me. ‘Got your sledgehammer with you, old chap?’ A perfect imitation of MT’s voice.
    â€˜Don’t talk like a bloody big boy scout,’ Idwal said to MT, and, with a shrug of his thin shoulders, went in ahead of us.
    Behind the desk was Sergeant Watts, a long serving member of the force in Maelgwyn. He got to his feet. ‘I’m very glad you’ve come, Mr Edmunds. We’ve been trying to reach you by telephone.’
    â€˜Left off the hook all day Sunday,’ MT snapped at him. ‘I demand the instant release of my son!’
    â€˜Not up to me,’ the Sergeant whispered. ‘Got higher–ups in. You know how it is.’
    â€˜Balls is how it is!’ MT roared. I couldn’t help smiling. ‘I want to see my son now!’
    The Sergeant held up one enormous hand, as if to stop all traffic everywhere. ‘It so happens,’ he said heavily, ‘that we are not holding your son.’
    â€˜Then release him, Watts. This minute!’
    â€˜It so happens that we did not bring your son here.’
    â€˜I should think not!’
    â€˜It so happens that he came here of his own accord, without pressure of any kind.’ The Sergeant was an amateur actor, only too well known in local productions. His pause was nicely timed. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Mr Edmunds, your son decided he wanted to make a confession.’
    MT made a sound as if all the wind had been knocked out of him. ‘Confession?’ he said. Then he launched himself at the desk. ‘Confess to what? I demand as a rate-payer and parent to see him now!’
    â€˜It’s the higher-ups,’ the Sergeant said. ‘If you’ll sit down, Mr Edmunds, I’ll make enquiries for you.’ And he stood there, shoulders held back, and waited until we looked as if we