He opened his door and climbed out. "Okay, what's this all about?" he demanded. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"

"We might ask you the same thing," said a voice from the middle of the line.

Because of the scarves across their mouths, Dick couldn't make out who had spoken, so he homed in on the one at the center. "If you're hunt saboteurs, I don't have much of an argument with you. My views on the subject are well known. The fox is not a pest to arable farmers so I don't allow the hunt across my land because of the damage it does to my crops and hedgerows. If that's why you're here, then you're wasting your time. The West Dorset Hunt will not come into this valley."

This time it was a woman's voice that answered. "Good on yer, mate. They're all fucking sadists. Riding around in red coats so the blood won't show when the poor little fing gets ripped to pieces."

Dick relaxed slightly. "Then you're in the wrong place. The meet's in Compton Newton. It's about ten miles to the west of here, on the other side of Dorchester. If you take the bypass and head toward Yeovil, you'll see Compton Newton signed to the left. The hunt is assembling outside the pub, and the hounds will be called for an eleven o'clock start."

The same androgynous woman answered again, presumably because she was the figure he was looking at: big and burly in an army-surplus overcoat and with an accent straight from the Essex marshes. "Sorry, mate, but I'm the only one that agrees with you. The rest couldn't give a shit one way or the other. You can't eat foxes, see, so they ain't much good to us. It's different with deer 'coz they're edible, and none of us can see the point of letting dogs 'ave their meat… not when there's humans like us needs it."

Still hoping for saboteurs, Dick allowed himself to be drawn into discussion. "There's no deer hunting with dogs in Dorset. Devon possibly… but not here."

"Sure there is. You think any hunt will pass up the chance of a buck if the hounds get wind of it? It ain't no one's fault if a little Bambi gets killed 'coz the dogs go after the wrong scent. That's life. There ain't nothing you can do about it. Numbers of times we've set traps for somefink to eat, and we end up with a poor little moggy's foot in the workings. You can bet your bottom dollar there's an old lady somewhere, weeping her heart out 'coz Tom never came home… but dead is dead, never mind it ain't what you planned."

Dick shook his head, recognizing that argument was futile. "If you're not prepared to tell me why you're here, then I'll have to call the police. You've no right to trespass on private property."

The remark was greeted with silence.

"All right," said Dick, taking a mobile phone from his pocket, "though be warned, I will prosecute if you've caused any damage. I work hard for the environment and I'm sick to death of types like you ruining it for the rest of us."

"Are you saying it's your property, Mr. Weldon?" said the same well-spoken voice that had answered him at the beginning.

For the briefest of moments he had a sense of recognition-it was a voice he knew, but without a face he couldn't put it in context. He searched the line for the speaker. "How do you know my name?"

"We checked the electoral register." This time there was a rougher edge to the vowels, as if the speaker had noticed his sharpened interest and wanted to deflect it.

"That wouldn't help you recognize me."

"R. Weldon, Shenstead Farm. You said you were an arable farmer. How many others are there in the valley?"

"Two tenant farmers."

"P. Squires and G. Drew. Their farms are to the south. If you were one of them you'd have come the other way."

"You're too well informed to have got all that from the electoral register," said Dick, scrolling through his mobile menu for the local police station. His calls usually concerned poachers or burned-out cars in his fields-an increasing nuisance since the government had declared zero tolerance on unlicensed vehicles-which was why he had the number on file. "I recognize your voice, my friend. I can't place it at the moment-" he selected the number and punched the call button, raising the phone to his ear-"but I'm betting this lot will know who you are."

The watching people waited in silence while he spoke to the sergeant at the other end. If any of them smiled as he became increasingly irritated at the advice he was being given, the smiles remained hidden behind their scarves. He turned his back toward them and walked away, making an effort to keep his voice down, but the angry hunching of his shoulders was the best indication they could have that he didn't like what he was hearing.

Six vehicles or less were considered an acceptable size for an encampment, particularly if it was at a distance from neighbors and posed no threat to road safety. The landowner could apply for eviction, but it would take time. The best course was to negotiate the length of stay through the Traveler Liaison Officer at the local authority and avoid unnecessary confrontation with the visitors. The sergeant reminded Dick that farmers had recently been arrested in Lincolnshire and Essex for using threatening behavior against groups who had invaded their land. The police were sympathetic to landowners but their first priority was to avoid anyone getting hurt.

"Godammit!" Dick rasped, cupping his hand across his mouth to muffle the words. "Who wrote these rules? You telling me they can park wherever they fancy, do whatever they like, and if the poor sap who owns the bloody land objects, you bastards'll arrest him? Yeah… yeah… I'm sorry… no offense intended. So what rights do the poor sods who live here have?"

In return for occupying the site, travelers were asked to agree to certain conditions. These concerned appropriate disposal of household and human waste, the proper control of animals, health and safety issues, and agreements not to reoccupy the same site within a period of three months or use threatening or intimidatory behavior.

Dick's ruddy face turned apoplectic. "You call those rights?" he hissed. "We're expected to offer house-room to a bunch of crooks and all we get in exchange is a promise that they'll behave in a halfway civilized manner." He shot an angry glance toward the line. "And how do you define threatening and intimidating behavior anyway? There's a dozen of them blocking my way and they're all wearing masks over their faces… not to mention some damn dogs and the 'keep out' notice they've slung across the track. What's that if it's not intimidating?" He hunched his shoulders lower. "Yes, well, that's the problem," he muttered, "no one knows who owns it. It's an acre of woodland on the edge of the village."

He listened for a moment. "Jesus wept! Whose side are you on, for Christ's sake?… Yeah, well, it might not be an issue for you but it sodding well is for me. You wouldn't have a job if I didn't pay my taxes."

He snapped the mobile closed and shoved it into his pocket before returning to the Jeep and yanking the door open. A ripple of laughter ran along the line.

"Got a problem, have you, Mr. Weldon?" said the voice in a mocking tone. "Let me guess. The busies have told you to phone the council negotiator."

Dick ignored him and climbed behind the wheel.

"Don't forget to tell her that no one owns this land. She lives in Bridport, and she'll be mighty stroppy if she has to drive all this way on her holiday to learn it from us."

Dick started the engine and turned the Jeep broadside to the line. "Who are you?" he demanded through the open window. "How do you know so much about Shenstead?"

But the question was greeted with silence. Furiously grinding his gears, Dick made a three-point turn and returned home to discover that the negotiator was indeed a woman, did live in Bridport, and refused to give up her holiday to negotiate over a piece of unclaimed land that squatters had as much right to occupy as anyone in the village.