She’d told him what she wanted him to do, but not how to go about it. This was a challenge which called for a pint of real ale and a lasagne and chips at the Half Moon to set his thought processes going. Well stoked, the sergeant made a phone call then drove to the Croptech premises. At the laboratory building he told a white-coated porter who was wheeling a trolley loaded with plastic containers of some kind of fluid that he’d like to speak to Mr. Barlow. When Roger Barlow appeared a minute later there was a surly expression on his good-looking face. “What do you want this time?” “Just a few words, Mr. Barlow. Er ... could we go somewhere private?” “Sure thing, we’ll go along to my personal private office.” Boulter let the sarcasm pass without comment. “How about taking a little stroll outside?” he suggested. With a shrug, Barlow led the way back along the corridor. On the gravelled driveway the two men started pacing side by side. “Chief Inspector Maddox,” Boulter began, “is unhappy about the lack of corroboration of your movements on the two evenings when first Sir Noah Kimberley and then Dr.
