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his feet and drained his cup before crushing the thin plastic in one hand and tossing it into the corner of the room. ‘And you can start by sorting out this bloody incident room before I blow a gasket.’
    The young detective sergeant gave a good-natured grin as Fulton’s shed-like bulk stormed from the room, trailing smoke from the cigarette jammed in the corner of his mouth. ‘The Grunt didn’t look too happy, guv,’ he called across to Gilham.
    ‘Shut it, Bryant,’ the other threw back with a tight smile, ‘or I’ll get him to sit on your head!’
     
    Herbert Lyall owned a big Georgian house with extensive wooded grounds, enclosed by a seven-foot-high wall, just outside the town. Fulton was pleased to see the uniformed constable manning what appeared to be electronically operated entrance gates at the front entrance and he was only admitted after the lad had radioed to the house. The early-turn inspector had obviously followed his instructions to the letter by making sure the place was properly secured.
    He already knew that Lyall was a widower, but was surprised to discover just how much of a recluse he was.
    ‘Couple of cleaning ladies came in each day apparently,’ the hard-bitten detective sergeant told him after ushering him into the hall. ‘One of them turned up here this morning after we had arrived – a Mrs Doreen Mason. Otherwise, the old boy seems to have kept pretty much to himself.’
    Fulton studied his sergeant’s sallow pockmarked face, noting with undisguised distaste the greasy black shoulder-length hair and half-buried earring, which might have suited a twenty-something pop star guitarist, but was hardly appropriate for an ageing detective sergeant with a wife and three children. Dick Prentice was a rather grubby and not very personable man and he had few friends to speak of, but he had been around like forever and was well known for his attention to detail. Little escaped the notice of the lean taciturn detective and that made him a particularly useful member of the investigation team.
    ‘Not married then?’ Fulton tested.
    Prentice nodded. ‘Was. Wife died four or five years ago and his only relative is a recently married daughter, Emily Ford, who lives in Hampshire. We’ve asked the local Bill to get hold of her for ID purposes.’
    ‘No dogs or anything?’
    The DS shook his head. ‘Only a couple of cats.’
    ‘So someone could easily have broken in here?’
    ‘No sign of a break-in, guv – except by us when we forced the front door – and it wouldn’t have been an easy job anyway. Perimeter wall has razor wire on top and a camera covers the electric gates at the front. Old boy controlled them from his study. Also the place is immaculate. Bed looks as though it hasn’t been slept in and the burglar alarm was set.’
    ‘Burglar alarm?’
    ‘Yeah, we triggered it when we went in. Mrs Mason has only just turned the damned thing off.’
    ‘But how did you get through the front gates if they are operated from inside the house?’
    The sergeant frowned. ‘That’s the funny thing, guv. The gates were wide open when we turned up here, even though the burglar alarm was set. Maybe Lyall forgot to close them when he left.’
    Fulton ran a hand across the stubble on his chin. ‘So it looks as though he left the house of his own accord?’
    ‘Yes, but not in his own car.’
    ‘Why do you say that?’
    ‘According to Mrs Mason, he owned two cars – an old Morgan and a 4.2 Jag. They’re both still in the garage. We checked.’
    ‘Tyre tracks?’
    For the first time the DS looked uncomfortable. ‘Plenty, guv. Three police vehicles turned up here.’
    ‘So if there was anything worth looking at, the plods have destroyed it?’
    There was no answer at first, then the other added helpfully: ‘Lyall could have used a taxi. We’re checking round the local firms now.’
    Fulton grunted. ‘And if he didn’t, then our killer must be someone he knew and trusted enough to let in.