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to do, Constable. I’m goin’ to give you a little test, ask you about somebody in the village. An’ I’ll put the same questions to this lad when he arrives. If, at the end of it, you can’t see his value, I’ll give him the boot.”
    Davenport looked down at the floor.
    â€œThat’s not necessary, sir.”
    â€œOh, but it is,” Woodend said. “I need a team I can rely on, an’ I can’t rely on you while you’re harbourin’ a grudge. Tell me about . . .” the first name that came into his head was Liz Poole, but he quickly rejected it, “tell me about the people who live in the big house on the corner of Harper Street.”
    Davenport smiled confidently.
    â€œThe Wilsons, sir. Mr Wilson was born in the village, moved away to Manchester, made his pile, then came back and had that house built.”
    â€œWhy did he choose to return to Salton?”
    â€œMaybe he was homesick, sir. Anyway, he’s a very serious feller, doesn’t drink.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œVery strict C of E.”
    â€œAnd Mrs Wilson?”
    â€œHe married her while he was in Manchester. She’s very retirin’. Rarely leaves the house.”
    â€œChildren?”
    â€œThey did have one daughter. She died. They don’t talk about it in the village.”
    â€œAnything else you want to add?” Woodend asked.
    â€œI don’t think so, sir,” Davenport said smugly.
    As if he had been listening for his cue, there was a knock on the door and a tall young man with an unlined, cherubic face and curly hair, walked in. Had it not been for his police cadet’s uniform, Woodend would have taken him for a well-developed fifteen-year-old.
    The youth gaped around the room, looking first at Woodend, then at Davenport, and back to Woodend again.
    â€œPh . . . Phil . . . Cadet Bl . . . Philip Black Cadet reportin’ for duty, sir,” he stuttered.
    Woodend, who had seen even experienced officers unbalanced by meeting a Yard man, was not surprised at Black’s nervousness.
    â€œTake a seat, Cadet,” he said.
    Black sat down next to Davenport and clasped his knees with his hands. It wouldn’t do to give the young man the test just then, Woodend decided, better to break him in gently.
    â€œTell me where you were when you first heard about the murder,” he said.
    The question seemed to confuse Black more than ever. His mouth flapped open, but no words came out. Finally, he said, “It was my day at the Magistrates’ Court,” and then dried up again.
    Woodend noticed Davenport’s superior smile.
    â€œWhat’s a police cadet doin’ at the Magistrates’ Court?” the Chief Inspector asked.
    â€œIt’s the Super’s idea,” Davenport explained. “Every cadet has his day in court once a week. It’s supposed to be so that they can see the law in action, but if you ask me, it’s to learn ’em early how to field the defense lawyer’s questions when the evidence is a little bit iffy.” He caught Woodend’s expression and realized he had made a mistake. “What I meant, sir . . .” he said attempting to backtrack.
    â€œI know what you meant, and I know it goes on – but that doesn’t mean I approve of it,” Woodend interrupted. He turned back to Black. “Carry on, lad,” he said encouragingly.
    â€œWell, sir, after the court had finished for the day, I walked home. I knew there was somethin’ wrong as soon as I got to the church, because of all the folk standin’ around. Then old Mrs Hawkins come up to me and said they’d found a girl in the salt store, with her throat cut from ear to ear. Well, I didn’t pay much attention to her, her whole family’s barmy. Her brother’s in the loony bin and her uncle Arthur was so round the twist he put pictures of the Kaiser up in his window durin’ the First World