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enormous. Sam could see the cop gauging the heaviness of each as they hung suspended from those useful S-shaped hooks on the steel rail, the hook piercing the buttock of the thing, taking the weight at the top and letting it hang, tapering through the leg bones to a blunt end. No hooves. A well-hung piece of beef was beautifully coloured, from the off-white of the fat to the ruddy brown and dark red of the meat, the colours harmonious and easy on the eye. Could have made wall paint for fancy houses, nice old colours from this kind of palette. The meat tones were the same as the complexion of Sam’s face and hands, ruddy brown to white to the rusty red of his nose. God bless that nose of yours, his wife told him: you can smell what’s rotten from fifty metres, and so he could, just as he could smell trouble and knew that there was none, just at the moment. As long as the copper hadn’t come about Jeremy. Sam showed his age, calling a policeman a copper.
    The shop smelled sweet, as it always did. Cleanliness was next to godliness; the lack of it was ruin. At the back of the shop was a kitchen area, including sink, kettle, oven, the other chopping board, dry stores, and the sacred cathedral of the chiller. The policeman cleared his throat and shook his head, still lost in admiration.
    ‘You don’t get this where I live. All local meat, is it?’
    Sam winked. ‘I like people to think so. This one isn’t. Local as in Argentina via London. Cheaper.’
    Sam took a knife from the rack and laid it next to the board. Then he picked up the axe.
    ‘Anything I can do you for?’
    Thwack, thwack, thwack.
    Three chickens on the board were suddenly halved. Sam threw them on a tray. The policeman pointed. Pointing was rude.
    ‘That big-fella beef. Shouldn’t it be in the fridge?’
    ‘You mean the chiller? No. It’s been in the chiller for three weeks. One degree above freezing. Took it out this morning. Want a feel? Solid as rock. Got to warm up a bit before I take it apart. ’Swhy I’m messing around with chickens and sausage. Lots to do today, got to get ready for the weekend rush. Not much custom yet, plenty of work. What did you want?’
    The policeman laughed. He wasn’t as young as he looked. ‘All of it,’ he said. ‘Rump, sirloin, stewing steak. As long as it’s beef.’
    ‘You can’t afford it.’
    They both admired the magnificent hindquarters hooked to the rail. They were easy with each other, but not quite. Sam relaxed. It wasn’t about Jeremy. The policeman spread his hands in mock surrender.
    ‘I’ll settle for a kilo of the Cumberland sausage and ask you to answer a question. The sausages because you’re a proper butcher, and the question because some old biddy uphill said you know everything. I’ll pay cash for the meat, and do you know how I find someone called J. Dunn? Only it’s a warren round here, and someone said he lived in one place, and someone said another, so I don’t know where I am.’
    ‘And we’re all supposed to be interrelated and know where everyone lives, are we? Well, we aren’t and we don’t. Even I don’t live here, although I was born here. What’s he done?’
    ‘Look, I just deliver the brown envelope, telling him to go to court. Even if I knew, I wouldn’t be able to tell you.’
    The butcher grinned without any meeting of eyes.
    ‘Parking, I’ll bet. The only fines round here are for parking or the TV licence. Or maybe it’s about that dog of his. He was ever a careless young man. He used to come in for bones.’
    Sam was not going to say anything else. He reached into the display counter and impaled a row of sausages darker in colour then their more pallid counterparts on adjoining trays. The colour of them reminded him of brown mottled carpet, and he could smell the herbs. Next to the Cumberland were other trays of diced beef, minced lamb, red rump steak and a large fillet of beef that looked as old as shoe leather. The window display was empty, waiting to be