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filled. Jeremy would do the bulk of the sausages tomorrow or Wednesday. The kilo was lifted in a single fat thread and fell plumply onto a sheet of greaseproof paper plucked by the butcher with his other hand. The whole place smelled so wholesome and the policeman shuffled his feet, feeling the sawdust underfoot. Sweet-smelling and bloodless, as if the blood had been absorbed and already digested. PC Chapman shopped in supermarkets, grazing amongst the pre-packed joints to find anything that might suit a carnivorous appetite created by his old mother’s stocks and stews. He liked the clean raw smell, hadn’t been in an old-fashioned butcher’s shop in years and could not remember the ones of his childhood smelling like this. He sniffed: apples from the basket in the corner; lemons from the bowl on the counter; rosemary in bunches ready to use with the lamb. He did not know what all the smells were, only that he liked them as well as the sight of the sawdust on the floor and he was still looking round, sniffing like a bloodhound and unaware of looking ridiculous when the wrapped sausages were dumped on the counter in front of him. Neverknew this place existed and, come to think of it, most people in the nearest town didn’t know either. No call to come to Pennyvale on a daily or weekly basis, no police station, no community cop, no law enforcer other than the traffic warden, no need. Just peace and quiet and good meat. He felt envious and ignorant and also superior.
    ‘So, do you know where this J. Dunn lives, then?’ he asked, fishing in his pockets for money.
    Sam shook his head, took down a knife from the rack behind him and began to sharpen it. Such a thin blade it had, out of all proportion to the handle, as if it had shrunk from being an axe and transformed itself into a dissecting tool, capable of cutting the most delicate of slices. Chapman glanced at the wall behind the counter. There was an arsenal of knives.
    ‘Nope, and I never did, not really. I know he’s a daft lad and he was renting from Mrs Hurly, up Benham Lane, behind the church, but I never knew the name of the house. Never delivered there, see? He only came in for bones for the bloody dog, see? I might know customers, but I don’t know everybody. That’ll be five pounds ninety-five. We take cards.’
    Not cheap – blatant overcharging. Chapman sorted out the exact money, counting it carefully. Sam put it in the till and wiped his hands on the front of his apron. He was far cleaner than a doctor, although his white overall bore signs of the last carcass he had embraced en route from the chiller at the back to the rail at the front.
    ‘Only I reckon you’re out of luck, anyway. Wherever he lived, he moved, months ago. I heard he got a job driving lorries or vans, up north or somewhere. There’s a woman lives there now. She rents the place, like he did, but she hasn’t got a dog. I mean, that poor bloody dog. Wasn’t its fault it bitpeople. Any road, he’s gone, that’s for sure. Probably took the bloody dog and went. Doubt if he was paid up on anything, either. Might be a few more summonses and that. I reckon he was one of them refugees – from divorce, I mean, quite a few of those hiding out round here. Usually a lot older than that, though.’
    Sam’s gaze towards the wall was guileless. He was restless, gazing at the hindquarters with longing, and PC Chapman was immediately suspicious, until he thought he realised the reason for the butcher’s preoccupation. The man wanted to start work on that hunk of meat, itching to make the first cut. Chapman thought he would think twice about making a complaint in this shop, what with Brady’s high complexion and all those knives.
    ‘Don’t you lot ever do joined-up thinking? I mean, does right hand know what left hand’s doing? Dunn kept his mad dog until the order came through that it had to be destroyed. One of your blokes came out to fetch it with a special van and everything, only he was