The only member who made James uneasy was a large, burly young man with a shaven head and a skull and crossbones tattooed on it. He was called Zak, and James was uncomfortably aware of Zak's eyes on him from time to time.
At last the meeting was wound up. Sybil said a bus would pick them all up in the centre of Coventry on the Saturday at 2 a.m. and take them to the wicked car salesman's barbecue.
As they were shuffling out of the door, Zak took James by the elbow in a powerful grip. 'I think we should find a place for a drink, mate,' he said.
'Got someone to see,' muttered James.
'They can wait,' said Zak, not releasing his grip on James's arm.
Not wanting to attract attention by making a scene, James allowed himself to be led out and marched along the street to another pub.
The new pub was quite respectable and fairly full. James began to relax. He could always get someone to call the police if Zak started to get nasty They ordered half-pints of bitter and took them to a corner table.
'Now, mate,' said Zak, 'what's your game?'
'What d'yer mean?' said James.
'You ain't one of them. Spotted it the minute you walked in.'
James studied Zak's unlovely face and then said in his own voice, 'Them? You said 'them'. Not, 'one of us'. What's
They scrutinized each other like two strange cats. James glanced under the table at Zak's feet. The torn jeans Zak was wearing ended in a pair of black lace-up shoes.
James gave a slow smile. 'Are you a detective?'
'Copper. The CID don't waste their time with a piffling thing like this. So what's your business?'
'How did you guess I wasn't one of them?'
'You're too clean and your nails are manicured. Did you notice the smell of unwashed bodies in there? They consider it bourgeois to wash. Sybil says that a capitalist society has removed all the exciting body odours from the British population,'
'I'm from near Ancombe,' said James. 'The village where that murder took place at the spring.'
'So what's that got to do with mis lot?'
'They demonstrated at the spring. I wondered what had brought them. No animals involved.'
'You think they had something to do with the murder?'
'No, but the water company taking away the water aroused strong feelings among the members of the parish council who didn't want the water taken away. I thought one of them might have paid this lot, and if someone paid this lot, then that person might be the murderer. Who pays mem, by the way? I heard somewhere that hunt saboteurs get as much as forty pounds a day.'
'Believe me, mate, thafs something I've never been able to find out. You'll get paid on Saturday. Plain envelope, notes inside. We've been able to trace legitimate contributions, sad, lonely people who can only relate to animals.'
'The ones who demand unconditional love?'
'You've lost me there.'
'There's a lot of hypersensitive people around who keep getting hurt by humans and so they pour out all their love on dogs and cats, and the dogs, in particular, return the love, and they can't speak, can't nag and are not likely to run away to another owner,'
'I get it. Well, some old codger dies and either because of the reasons you gave, or because they think their relatives didn't appreciate them, they leave their money to organizations like this.'
'So do you go undercover to tip the police off when there's going to be a demonstration?'
'If it's going to be really nasty, yes, but I have to be careful. I won't bother about this thing on Saturday. If it gets rough, I'll hide behind a bush and call them in on my mobile.'
'How long have you been doing it?'
'Six months, here and there, different groups.'
'Seems a bit rough. That tattoo, for instance.'
'Washes off. Not the real thing, and my hair'll grow back in again. They've promised to take me off it soon, send someone else.'
'So is Sybil the head of this lot?'
'No. Look, they go on about the liberation of women, but these groups are as male-chauvinist-pig as you could find anywhere. So they put up some noisy female as chairperson while the fellows actually do all the organizing. You sometimes get a few upper-class ones joining in. They like a rumble for a bit of excitement and don't care what the cause is. So tell me about yourself.'
So James did: retired colonel, trying to write military history.
'I don't mind you being around and that's a fact,' said Zak when James had finished. 'But dirty up your nails a bit.'
'And you should change your shoes,' said James with a grin. 'They scream 'copper'.'
Car salesman Mike Pratt surveyed his appearance complacently in the mirror that Saturday. He didn't look forty. Bit of grey hair at the temples, but that gave him a distinguished look. His designer jeans had knife-edge creases and his new white leather shoes, he thought, gave him an international look. He glanced at his gold Rolex, not a real one, mind, but bought in Nathan Street in Kowloon, and who could tell the difference?
His wife came into the bedroom and stood with her thin arms folded, looking at him. Kylie was his second wife. She had been a pretty little blonde when he married her ten years ago, but now, he thought, glaring at her reflection in the mirror, she looked a fright, with dark roots showing in her blonde hair, and a skimpy T-shirt, skin- tight leggings and high-heeled shoes all accentuating her painful thinness. He tied a red scarf at the neck of his open-necked blue shirt.
'Everything's ready for you to play the big shot,' said Kylie. 'But I ain't roasting them hedgehogs, no way.'
'You wouldn't know how to,' sneered Mike. 'I know, just like that, cos of my gypsy background.'
'What gypsy background?' said Kylie. 'Your father's a burglar and he's still doing time.'
'I'm talking about my grandparents. My grandmother was a gypsy.' Mike took a swig of vodka from a glass on the dressing-table. His consumption of alcohol was awe-inspiring.
It is a sad trait among American alcoholics to claim a Cherokee grandmother; among their British counterparts, it is a gypsy.
Mike and Kylie Pratt lived in a neat bungalow among other neat bungalows, all almost identical with their niched curtains at the windows and their manicured lawns.
Mike went out carrying his glass, brushing past his wife. He heard the first car arrive. He had invited all the neighbours. He was not sure how hedgehogs should be roasted, but they were meat like any other animal, and should surely simply be salted and peppered and put on the barbecue.
The day was fine, not a cloud in the sky. Feeling the lord of the manor, he advanced to meet the first of his guests.
He had paid the butcher to skin the hedgehogs, and the little carcasses lay in a pathetic bunch on a table beside the barbecue. On other tables were bowls of salads, paper plates, cups, bottles and glasses.
He felt at his best when dispensing drinks. The garden began to fill up. Voices were raised in the usual neighbourly salutations, 'You a'right? I'm a'right.' The women surrounded their men, listening eagerly as if they had not heard every word over the preceding years, prompting their spouses with little cries of 'Ye-yes. Oh, yes.'
Mike put the hedgehogs on the barbecue and poked at them with a long fork. Maybe he should have tried to cook one before. The smell was not very appetizing.
And then the protesters erupted into the garden. 'Murderer!' screamed Sybil.
Flushed with booze and outrage, Mike strode forward. 'Get out of here, you hooligans.' He punched Trevor on the arm. Trevor punched him on the nose and Mike fell back, with blood streaming down his face, while guests scattered and the television cameras whirred, for no protesters protested without informing the press of what they were about to do.
Zak crouched down behind a bush and phoned for reinforcements, which he knew were waiting in a van
