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Michael's making for?'
    'Old Garner said it was at the end of this track.'
    'You said Drago Volkanian was an Armenian. So, according to Mrs Ashton, is that wretch Dr Saxon. Could there be a connection?'
    'No idea. We're nearly coming to the end of the part of Dartmoor I used to walk over with my wife when I was with the Yard. I told you she'd run off with a millionaire, a Greek shipping magnate. Time goes by.'
    'Haven't you ever thought of divorcing her?' Paula asked gently.
    'Too much fuss. No idea where she is now. Haven't heard of her for years. Originally they sailed off in one of the Greek's motor yachts to Buenos Aires. End of story.'
    They crested a high ridge. Beyond, the track sloped down before climbing again in the distance. Tweed pointed to their right.
    'There's a valley down there. Valleys are called combes, old Devonian word.'
    'Look, there's a snowman by the side of the track. And Michael walked past it without a glance. I wouldn't have thought children came as far as this.'
    As they reached the large snowman Tweed flicked at the head with the walking stick. A large slab of snow fell from the head, exposing a skull.
    'Oh, my Lord!' Paula gasped, horrified.
    The skull was attached to the neck. The ground trembled under their feet. The skull appeared to sit up higher, grinning at them. What increased its hideousness was that on the right side sodden brown hair was clinging to it. Tweed took a torch from his pocket, beamed it on the macabre sight.
    Tweed tapped again at the figure, dislodging more snow to reveal the torso. Frozen flesh clung to one side of the breast, which struck Tweed as very odd. He leaned forward, pursed his lips, then stood up.
    'What is it?' asked Paula.
    'Some instrument has been used to hack halfway through to the spine. That's why the skull remained attached. It needs a pathologist to confirm my impression. That means it's . . .'
    'Murder,' whispered Paula.
    'I need to use your mobile phone urgently.'
    'Here you are,' she said impatiently.
    'We need a bright marker that can be seen from the air.'
    Paula unwrapped her long red scarf, almost the size of a flag. Tweed tucked the mobile in his pocket, spread the scarf across the track, anchoring it with rocks he collected from the' track's edge. He looked at Paula before pressing numbers.
    'I'm calling Buchanan. Getting him to fly down with a team. You keep after Michael, otherwise we'll lose him. Are you armed?' he asked suddenly. 'Yes. Of course you are.'
    She withdrew her right hand from her shoulder bag. It was gripping her .32 Browning she kept in a special pocket for easy access. Returning the automatic to its pocket, she took out a camera.
    'One more thing to do. This horror may have collapsed by the time Buchanan makes it here.'
    She clicked the special non-flash camera invented by the boffins in the basement of Park Crescent. Clicking it ten times, not liking what she saw through the viewfinder, she returned the camera to her shoulder bag as Tweed started making the call. She hurried after Michael, now no more than a tiny figure climbing a slope.
    Before she caught up with him she checked the photos, her pocket torch clenched between her teeth. One print made her feel sick. She had placed a hand over one side so she saw only the side of the head. The side where frozen flesh fell over the skull with a glimpse of grinning teeth. She slipped them back into an evidence envelope, took a deep breath and began running after Michael.
    The atmosphere of the moor seemed unnerving as snow melted rapidly, revealing its menacing sweeps, which she felt were closing in round her. Rocks appeared, jutting up like dragons' teeth. It was almost a relief to have company when she slowed to a swift walk ten yards or so behind Michael. She knew he must have heard the thud of her approaching feet. He never looked round once, continuing his erect march like a soldier.
    She looked back, saw Tweed approaching, running at quite a pace. Separately and recently,