He tossed and muttered, then slept heavily, right through the alarm. He got up in a rush, hollered at Peter for being in the bathroom when he wanted to use it, snapped at his wife for not rousing him earlier, and scalded the roof of his mouth with hot tea. It was a bad way to start the morning. But he took time, before he left the house, to give Molly the reassurance she needed; for himself, he found little enough to be optimistic about. The route from Benidorm Avenue to Divisional Headquarters took him past one of the town’s saleyards, where an old-established firm of auctioneers held a livestock market every Tuesday and Friday. The market always included entries of fat cattle, rabbits and poultry, but the biggest attraction, especially on the first Tuesday in every month, was pigs. There would be anything up to a thousand of them, the quality breeding-sows travelling to Breckham in the comparative comfort and exclusiveness of netted trailers, while the young stores and the fat pigs for slaughter were jostled there in three-tiered cattle trucks.
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