'I'll have a word with them myself,' said Dalziel.
'Can I get through that fence without rupturing myself?'
'There isn't a gate, if that's what you mean. But kids and ponies don't seem to have any difficulty.'
Dalziel looked down at his ample girth.
'It's not the eye of a needle, is it?' he said.
'No. And it's not much like the kingdom of heaven over there either,' said Greenall.
But the scene as the two men strolled together across the grass had something idyllic about it. There were a couple of traditional wooden caravans, brightly coloured. But even the modern trailers were not unattractive as their polished surfaces gave back the morning sun. There was scarcely any movement. A fillet of smoke hung almost straight in the still air. Half a dozen dogs lay in the shade under the wheels. Ponies grazed. A trio of children wrestled in the grass. Distantly the sound of other children at play drifted from somewhere out of sight.
Only when they reached the picket fence did the scrap and the litter which surrounded the caravans become truly apparent.
'Here we are,' said Greenall, pulling back the fence where it had been detached from one of the main stakeposts.
'Thanks,' said Dalziel. 'You not coming along?'
'I don't think so. I mean, if you find anything, then of course I'll co-operate. But I don't want to be always appearing on the side of the complainers.
They're a nuisance, I know, but they've got a right to exist, haven't they? And at least they try to stay free, you've got to admire them for that.'
'Free?' said Dalziel. 'I've seen better-looking gaols!'
He strode away, pleased to feel his political equilibrium, upset by Middlefield's extremism, had been restored by Greenall's liberalism.
As he approached the caravans, the dogs and children watched him warily, but he could see no sign of adult life. He made no particular effort at stealth, but he could move extremely lightly for a man of his bulk, and as he slipped between two caravans, it amused him to think of a fat, urban policeman being able to steal up on these sons of nature unobserved.
Then he was seized from behind, his arms pinioned at his side, and he was thrust so forcefully against the side of a caravan that the vehicle shook.
'Fucking snoop around, would you? What's your game, fatty?' said a rough voice close to his left ear.
Too close.
Dalziel jerked his great cannon-ball of a head to the left. There was a sickening clash of bone and flesh. The grip on his arms slackened. He shrugged it off and turned to the thickset, dark-skinned man at his side.
'I'm a police officer,' he warned. 'Who are you?'
The man rushed at him.
Well, he'd been warned, thought Dalziel, and hit him in the stomach. Once was really enough, but it was as well to be sure, so he hit him again in the same spot.
Then he stood back and waited for the man to show signs of being ready for communication.
'I'll ask you once more,' he said finally. 'Who are you?'
'You've bust my gut,' gasped the man.
'Name!' snarled Dalziel.
'Lee. Dave Lee.'
'I might have guessed. It's a hobby of yours, assaulting policemen.'
'I didn't know you was police. I thought you was another of them council snoopers.'
'And it's OK to thump council officers, is it?' queried Dalziel. 'Well, you may be right. This your caravan? Let's have a look.'
He went up the steps, thrust open the door and entered. A woman in an inadequate shift was standing in the narrow living area. Dalziel ignored her and looked around. The place smelt of sweat, tobacco and sex, but it looked clean and tidy enough. There was a richly coloured carpet on the floor and a sense of extra space was given by two large, ornate, cut-glass mirrors. One wall was almost covered by a mahogany display cabinet which held a strange variety of traditionally patterned china, crystal bowls and vases and some goblets and smaller objects in what looked like silver.
'Who the hell's this?' demanded the woman.
'Mrs Lee?' said Dalziel, turning his attention to her as if he hadn't noticed her till now. He let his eyes move slowly up from the rather flaccid breasts clearly visible through her shift to her face, the left side of which was stained with a fading bruise.
'That's nice,' he said. 'You'll make a matching pair.'
Behind him Lee spoke sharply in what he took to be Anglo-Romany and the woman retreated to the sleeping area and began to pull some clothes on.
Dalziel moved around the trailer opening drawers and cupboards, looking under cushions and behind curtains.
'What's your game, mister?' demanded Lee.
'Thought you were never going to ask, Dave,' said Dalziel cheerfully. 'I'm looking for stolen property. I haven't got a warrant, so why don't you shoot off and call your lawyer?'
'What stolen property?' demanded Lee.
'Break-in at the Aero Club last night. Bottles of booze,' answered Dalziel.
Lee laughed harshly. And with relief? wondered Dalziel.
'No stolen booze here, mister. Look all you like.'
Dalziel returned to the living area and stood in front of the display cabinet.
'I believe you, Dave,' he said. 'Your gut's too big for the window. You ought to watch that. I nearly lost my fist in there just now. This is nice stuff. The gypsy bank, they call it, don't they? Worth a pretty penny, I'll be bound. Good investment, no bother with the tax man.'
He opened the cabinet and took down a plate.
'What rank did you say you was, mister?' demanded Lee with sudden suspicion in his voice.
'Detective Superintendent,' answered Dalziel.
'And you says you're looking for a couple of bottles of booze?' said Lee incredulously. 'Here, watch that stuff!'
A cup had nearly slipped from Dalziel's hand.
'Sorry,' he said. 'That's sharp of you, Dave, spotting that. You've got to be sharp in your line of work, no doubt. Whatever it is. Me too. Spot what's not quite right. Now, I'd say this is not quite right, but I'm no expert.'
He had taken down from the extreme end of the topmost shelf a plain stone jar.
'Here, copper, you've got no right!' protested Lee. 'You said you'd no warrant. Right, you can just fuck off and get one before you touches another thing here!'
Dalziel opened the jar.
'Flour,' he said. 'Looks the real stuff. Not this modern muck with all the goodness bleached out of it.'
He took out a handful and sniffed at it.
'Oh yes,' he said to the woman who was dressed now and standing watching him with a look of complete indifference.
He held it out to her. She looked away. He opened his hand, spread his fingers, let the flour filter through on to the rich red carpet.
'The real stuff,' he repeated taking another handful. 'But it can't be all that valuable, can it, Dave? I mean, it's in with the family antiques here, though.'
The second handful followed the first.
He dipped in again.
'Hello,' he said. 'I think it's getting lumpy.'
He withdrew his hand. In it was a gent's gold-plated digital watch with an expanding bracelet. Carefully he blew the flour off it.
'Still going,' he said. 'It's like a telly ad, isn't it?'
