led to believe by the cottage owner, they would locate Rob Hastings on a track leading to Dames Slough Inclosure. He was an agister, they were told, and he'd been called to do "the usual bit of sad business."
This business turned out to be the shooting of one of the New Forest ponies that had been hit by a car on A35. The poor animal had apparently managed to stagger across acres of heath before collapsing. When Barbara and Nkata found the agister, he'd put the horse to death with one merciful shot from a .32 pistol, and he'd brought the animal's body to the edge of the lane.
He was talking on his mobile, and sitting attentively next to him was a majestic-looking Weimaraner, so well trained as to ignore not only the interlopers but also the dead pony lying a short distance from the Land Rover in which Robbie Hastings had apparently come to this lonely spot.
Nkata pulled off the lane as far as he was able. Hastings nodded as they approached him.
They'd told him only that they wanted to speak with him at once, and he looked grave. It was hardly likely that he had many calls from the Metropolitan police in this part of the world.
He said, "Stay, Frank," to the dog and came towards them. "You might want to keep back from the pony. It's not a happy sight." He said he was waiting for the New Forest Hounds and then added, "Ah. Here he is," in reference to an open-bed lorry that rumbled towards them. It was pulling a low trailer with shallow sides, and into this the dead animal was going to be loaded. It would be used for meat to feed the dogs, Robbie Hastings informed them as the lorry got into position. At least some good would come of the reckless stupidity of drivers who thought the Perambulation was their personal playground, he added.
Barbara and Nkata had already decided there was no way that they were going to inform Robbie Hastings of his sister's death on the side of a country road. But they had also reckoned that their very presence was likely to set the man on edge, and it did so. Once the pony was loaded and the lorry from New Forest Hounds had negotiated a difficult turn to get back to the main road, Hastings swung round to them and said, "What's happened? It's bad. You wouldn't be here otherwise."
Barbara said, "Is there somewhere we could have a conversation with you, Mr.
Hastings?"
Hastings touched the top of his dog's smooth head. "Might tell me here," he said.
"There's no place nearby for private talk 'less you want to go into Burley, and you don't want that, not at this time of year."
"Do you live nearby?"
"Beyond Burley." He took off the baseball cap he was wearing, revealing a head of close-cropped hair. This was graying and would have been thick otherwise, and he used a kerchief he had round his neck to scrub over his face. His face was singularly unattractive, with large buckteeth and virtually no chin. His eyes, however, were deeply human and they filled with tears as he looked at them. He said, "So she's dead, eh?" and when Barbara's expression told him this was so, he gave a terrible cry and turned from them.
Barbara exchanged a look with Nkata. Neither of them moved at first. Then Nkata was the one to put his hand on Hastings' shoulder and the one to say, "We're that sorry, mon. 'S bad when someone goes like this."
He himself was upset. Barbara knew this from the way Nkata's accent altered, becoming less South London and more Caribbean, with the th's morphing into d's. He said, "I'm drivin'
you home. Sergeant here, she follow in my car. You tell me how to go, we get you there. No way you need to be out here now. You good to tell me how to get t'your place?"
"I can drive," Hastings said.
"No way you're doing that, mon." Nkata jerked his head at Barbara and she hastened to open the Land Rover's passenger door. On its seat were a shotgun and the pistol the man had used to shoot the pony. She moved these beneath the seat and together she and Nkata got Hastings inside. His dog followed: one graceful leap and Frank was leaning against his master in the silent way all dogs have of comforting.
They made a sad little procession out of the area, proceeding not