PC Calvert was only a year or two off retirement age. Possibly he could have attained promotion to a higher rank had it not been for his, or rather his wife's, reluctance to move from Woodside. Her whole life centred round the small mountain village, and she had repeatedly insisted in the early years of their marriage that she would die if she went to live anywhere else. George Calvert had an open mind about the Woodside folk. They were a close-knit, superstitious, suspicious lot, but if you went along with them life was fairly easy. Who was to know if the regulars at the Cat continued drinking for an hour or so after closing time? In their own way the inhabitants of the village were law-abiding, so he let them alone, and they accepted him because he was Ella's husband and almost forgot that he was an outsider, born and bred in Cardiff. He was Welsh anyway, and that was the criterion.

Calvert carefully placed his flat hat upside down on the table and accepted the cup of tea which Jamie handed him, hoping that she wouldn't notice that his hand shook a little. Tall and thin, he looked ungainly on the small upright chair. His brow furrowed as he sipped his drink. He'd seen death many times during his career, and now suddenly he was shaken by the sight of a dead cat. It didn't make sense, he couldn't figure it out. It was the way it had been killed, of course; the sheer callousness of it all.

'It's those Wilsons,' Peter insisted, 'getting their own back on me.'

'Let's not accuse anybody without proof.' A village policeman had to be a diplomat at all times. 'And proof we certainly haven't got.' The last thing he wanted to say was, 'It looks like some kind of ritual killing to me, a sort of sacrifice.' There had been odd reports up and down the country of black magicians carrying out filthy blood rites in old churchyards and such places, but surely they'd never come to a place like Hodre. He'd have to word his report very carefully if he wasn't going to stir up a real hornets' nest. 'Look, Mr Fogg, I'm going to make a few discreet enquiries. If you'll leave it with me for a few days maybe I'll come up with something. On the face of it it looks like the work of vandals.'

'Tell me about the Wilsons.' Peter regarded the policeman steadily. 'The younger ones have been threatening my son at school.'

They're a bit of a rough lot'—a reluctant admission—'the old man's got a permanent chip on his shoulder. I suppose having twins twice over didn't help.' Calvert laughed. 'He's drilled into his lads a kind of fanatical patriotism, sort of if somebody's not Welsh they're an enemy. There never used to be much bother but since one or two strangers drifted into Woodside the Wilsons seem to have taken it upon themselves to wage war on the English. Between you and me'—the constable, smiled faintly, winked and tapped his forehead with his finger—'they're a bit dulally, if you know what I mean. I'm not saying they killed your cat and I'm not saying they didn't, but it's the kind of thing they would do. Maybe we'll find out, maybe we won't, but I'll give 'em a friendly warning that I think it might be them and there'll be trouble if they do anything else. Oh, and if they come up biking again and causing you trouble, just give me a buzz and I'll come up.'

PC Calvert finished his tea, picked up his hat and stood up. 'Well, it's been nice meeting you folks but I'll have to be tiddling along.'

'Just tell me one thing,' Peter said, and added, 'in confidence of course. What do Messrs Peters and Bostock do for a living?'

'Now why on earth do you ask that?' The policeman's eyebrows rose. 'You've not had any trouble with them have you?'

'No.' Peter smiled. 'Except that when we called in at the Cat for a drink last night they recounted a host of horrible legends and rumours purely for our benefit. I wondered why they went to work on moonlight nights in particular.'

'They're poachers.' Calvert's expression was grave. 'And tough customers at that. They've both done time, about three years ago. Twelve months apiece for maliciously wounding a gamekeeper one night. They damned near killed him. Fortunately out here there are no estates where game is reared in large numbers, and mostly they concern themselves with ground game—rabbits and hares—and most of the farmers round here turn a blind eye to it. In a way Peters and Bostock are doing them a favour by keeping the rabbits down. Mind you, if they see a pheasant they'll have it, and there's been reports of poultry gone missing from time to time. Take a tip from me, if they get working the fields round here at night and you hear 'em, let 'em get on with it. When it comes to doing unpleasant things and getting their own back on somebody for something, the Wilsons have got nothing on those two!'

Janie felt a little shiver run up and down her spine. Truly the night had a thousand eyes. And how many other unpleasant characters were roaming the fields and woods around Hodre during the nocturnal hours?

'Don't forget, any bother from anybody and I'll be right up'

'He's genuine,' Peter murmured, as they watched the blue and white Panda van winding its way back down the lane in the direction of Woodside. 'A real nice guy, the best so far in this place.'

'What about Hughes, the schoolmaster?'

'I wouldn't trust him as far as I could throw him, and he must weigh fifteen stone.' Peter's eyes narrowed. 'He's a coward and a bully and it's quite obvious to me that he's scared stiff of the Wilson family. I reckon from this morning onwards that he's scared of me too.' He laughed.

T don't like the sound of this Peters and Bostock pair one little bit.' Janie entwined her fingers until the ends suffused with blood. 'Oh Peter, it isn't safe at nights with them prowling about. They've already been to prison for violence.' 'I doubt whether they'll harm us,' he smiled. 'All they're interested in is rabbits and hares, and as far as I'm concerned they're welcome to them'

'But they've got a grudge against us, you could tell that by the way they were talking in the pub last night.'

'Simply because we're English, and there must be an awful lot of other Welshmen who share their views.' 'Maybe they killed Snowy?'

'I doubt it very much. Country folk aren't like that. They enjoy their various field sports but they abhor cruelty and suffering. Me, I'm blaming the Wilsons but, as Calvert said, I doubt very much whether we'll ever prove it. Well, it doesn't look as if I'm going to get much work done today. I'd better go and cut that cat down and bury it. The last thing we want is for Gavin to go up the field and find it hanging up there. I'll do it right away.'

'And a hutch for the rabbit . . . ?' 'OK, OK. One thing at a time. First I'll go and see to the cat.'

He donned his duffle-coat and went out through the back door. The cloud had not lifted; if anything it had come down lower—a thick grey blanket that obscured everything and made weird shapes out of perfectly ordinary everyday things. Peter shivered. God, it was cold. The damp got right through no matter what he was wearing.

He didn't relish the prospect of going up to the circle again. It wasn't just the thought of having to look upon the horrendously mutilated cat again, or even that he'd have to handle the corpse this time—It went deeper than that; violent death in a silent grey world. Almost a—warning. Get out, or this might happen to you!

Peter licked his lips. His mouth was dry and his head was thumping like a voodoo drum. He gripped the handle of the spade he was carrying. It was more than just a tool, it was a weapon, a steel blade that would be deadly if it was used correctly to hit somebody at the right angle in the right place. It was a disconcerting thought, an association with the violence he loathed.

The twisted pines loomed up ahead of him through the fog, deformed giants making threatening gestures with their misshapen arms: Go away, you have been wanted! He held the spade tightly and felt tiny beads of cold sweat starting to break out on his body.