‘Did they get anything fresh from him?’ enquired Gently perfunctorily. ‘Oh yes, sir,’ replied his constable informant. ‘He admitted that he was in the wartime Special – knew all about the handling of truncheons, he did. The chief constable wants to give him one to see how he would go about it, only our inspector don’t much like it, so the CC scrubs round it.’ ‘Just as well for Inspector Dyson.’ Gently permitted himself a grin. ‘And that was all – after two hours’ interrogation?’ ‘Well, they trips him up a bit, sir – you know how it is. And there was something about him killing a sheepdog with a bottle when he was a nipper – dog jumps out at him, and he fetches it a clout with a pop-bottle.’ Gently clicked his tongue. ‘I wouldn’t have said that was habit-forming. There was no charge made, was there, other than for assault and battery?’ ‘No, sir. Not yet. But between you and me, sir, it’s working up to it.’ Gently stood brooding in the empty room with its settling fire and suggestive disposition of chairs and table.
