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'Very funny.' said Julia, changing the subject. 'What's on TV tonight?'

Franklin slowed the car on the far side of the hill as they approached their cliff-top cottage overlooking the Channel.

'Kenny Elliott was saying there's a documentary on Man Alive about the space mission to Neptune.'

'And it's Thirty Minute Theatre tonight, isn't it?'

Franklin nodded as the car slowed on the gravel driveway.

'I'll get the casserole on, darling,' Julia said, slipping out of the car.

By the time that Franklin had put the Stag in the garage, and then changed into a pure-wool polo-neck sweater and casual slacks, his wife had poured him a large glass of brandy, and left it on the dining-room table. He swallowed the smooth Napoleon in one gulp, then sank into the deeply cushioned swivel armchair.

'How's it going, love?' he called into the kitchen, and was answered with a noncommittal laugh.

'Ten minutes.'

'Make it eight.'

'Will you beat me black and blue with your truncheon if it's thirty seconds over?'

Franklin closed his eyes and smiled. 'Probably'

For a few moments he let his thoughts drift.' to the game of cricket he was due to play for the county constabulary on Sunday next; to Mrs Clark and Mrs Watson who had come into the station all of a fluster to ask if there was a killer on the loose after the 'horror' over at Westbury... Franklin's eyes snapped open.

'Julia!' he shouted, as he stood. 'The autopsy...'

Autopsies, she corrected. 'And I thought you didn't want to talk about "work".'

'I've changed my mind. What did you find?' He moved into the kitchen and found his wife putting down her glass of wine, about to take the beef carbonade from the oven.

'Another minute, she said, smiling.

'Whatever. The autopsy?'

'What do you want to know?'

Franklin wasn't sure. 'I suppose I want to know if that boy Dyson did it.'

'Probably not, said Julia, sipping her wine. 'Both of the victims had massive internal haemorrhaging, seemingly caused by extreme heat.'

'That doesn't make sense, said Franklin. 'They'd been ripped to shreds. The girl was virtually gutted.'

'Now who's putting whom off their dinner?'

They ate in virtual silence, the sun sinking towards the horizon as they looked out from the panoramic picture window of the dining room, over the gently rolling green of their garden and the shimmering blue-grey sea.

When either of them spoke it was in short, precise bursts to which the other answered, almost telepathically. They had been married for eight years and it showed.

'I was talking to Albert Peacock about the begonias...'

'Really? Need thinning?'

'Apparently.'

Then the conversation returned to the death of the young people.

'The boy was crazed when we found him,' said Franklin.

'Absolutely out of his tree. Kept rambling on about devils and goblins.'

'Was he badly injured?'

'Lots of cuts and bruises. Best we could figure, he'd attacked the other two.'

'What with?' asked Julia suddenly.

'Sorry?'

'What weapon did he use?'

Franklin looked a little embarrassed. 'Well, we haven't found that yet, have we? Some kind of knife, I suppose.'

'No knife could have made those marks on the girl's body. They were claw marks or I'm a monkey's auntie.'

Her husband shook his head. 'Are you saying an animal did this?'

Julia shrugged. 'I'm saying a knife didn't do it.' She stopped. The setting sun cast dark and ominous shadows across the surface of the water. 'What was that?'

'I didn't hear anything.'

'Then shut up, she said sharply, and moved to the window. The sky was like a Turner painting, enormous splashes of crimson and burnt orange reaching across the striated clouds.

Franklin joined her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. 'Beautiful night,' he said.

'Is it?' Somewhere in the distance she could just make out a black mass emerging from the embers of the dying sun.

She shivered. 'What's wrong, love?'

'Birds flying at night,' she said. Now Franklin understood.'

Julia was a West Country girl, and in those