"Not an accident?" Police Inspector Morris frowned, which caused a few patches of sweat on his balding forehead to run together. A deft sweep from an already grubby handkerchief removed most of it but the afternoon heat would soon cause the supply to be replenished.

  "Well, it's early days yet but there's definitely evidence of tampering," said the investigator, rubbing at the oil on his hands, grimy from going over the wreckage that was now stored in the garage area behind the police station. He had been temporarily drafted in from the main headquarters over forty miles away, the small local force not warranting a permanent post.

  "What sort of tampering?"

  "I've found what appear to be hacksaw cuts and holes drilled where holes shouldn't be."

  "Hmm. That certainly ties in with what we heard from the witness," Morris said, settling himself into the old leather of his chair, which groaned and crackled under the weight. Morris picked up the cardboard folder from the desk and, falling silent, stared at it. It was, as yet, quite thin, holding a few typed sheets and some photographs; in all likelihood it would soon get much fatter.

  The investigator, assuming the conversation finished, shrugged and returned to his investigations leaving Morris to ponder alone. Not that it took much thinking about now that the two lines of evidence had begun to corroborate.

  From behind his ancient oak desk Morris stared out through the window and watched as the town's life drifted past. On the pavement in front of the King's Arms a queue had formed at the phone box, its recently repainted crimson glowing in the summer sun almost hurt his eyes. Just past the launderette a couple of delivery boys, their oversized loads wobbling precariously on the front of their black bikes, erupted from the alleyway beside the grocer's store and struggled up the road. Somewhere in the distance he could hear a transistor radio blaring out the latest Beatles' hit. There should, he thought, be a law against it.

  Dragging his thoughts back on track he glanced at the photographs again although he had seen the remains of the car for himself. The damage had been quite extensive. Like constables MacKay and Jackson, who had been the first on the scene, he had at first assumed that Belcher, the driver, had merely lost control and failed to negotiate the final curve of the notorious, tree-obscured, S-bend. He wasn't the only one to write off his car on that particular stretch of road, though he had become its first fatality. Morris sighed, remembering the excuses from Local Councillor Maxwell Burgess about the lack of funds for road straightening after Morris had broached the subject yet again at the last council meeting.

  Poor Mr Belcher. Although unmarried – a confirmed bachelor, by all accounts – his death had affected not just himself but a good proportion of the inhabitants of the small town and its surrounding villages. They had been so looking forward to the circus; the posters announcing the imminent arrival of Belcher's Big Top had been popping up for weeks. Large and gaudy, and decorated with the usual assortment of acrobats, clowns, tigers and elephants, recently it had seemed that no lamppost or telegraph pole had escaped their bright defacement. Yesterday morning the convoy of smoke- and fume-belching lorries had taken over the big common just outside the town, and all day multicoloured tents and stalls had sprouted as the poppies and cornflowers had done similarly a few weeks previously.

  Now, of course, the main attraction had been cancelled after news of the early morning accident had circulated. The stalls, which had opened to the eager public early yesterday evening, whilst the big top was still being erected, were again closed; the anticipated promise of excitement completely dissipated.

  It had been the witness, old Mr Pettigrew, following a short distance behind Mr Belcher who had first raised the possibility that the accident might not have been quite as clear-cut as it had first promised. He had described the suddenly erratic nature of Belcher's driving which had begun a few hundred yards before the treacherous S-bend. At first it had been suspected that the car had hit something on the road which had caused it to divert from its course and, thence, into a tree, ripping the door clean off its hinges in the process. But Mr Pettigrew's statement indicated otherwise claiming that the road had been clear of obstacles and that the aforementioned door appeared to have fallen off all by itself. If they were to continue to believe Mr Pettigrew, then, almost immediately afterwards, the offside front wheel had suffered a similar but just as mysterious fate and the car had subsequently disintegrated piece by piece. Mr Pettigrew had wisely brought his own vehicle, a grey Austin A35, to a halt in order to avoid the debris that had, by then, begun to clutter up the narrow, winding lane.

  Morris opened the folder and pulled out the hastily developed photographs of the wreck and stared at them. The almost new car, a white four-door Ford Cortina saloon, was barely recognisable. By the time its passage had been arrested by the sturdy trunks of the row of pines it had shed its bonnet, two more wheels and the rest of its doors; and Mr Belcher had prematurely shed his mortal coil. Morris' fingers hovered over the rear of the car in the photo, over the open boot lid which had, according to Pettigrew, inexplicably popped up as the car had slid around the first bend.

  He placed the photos back down on the desk and tried to picture the car's disintegration, forcing his imagination to see the car popping to pieces as suggested by Mr Pettigrew. He shook his head – he had never come across anything quite like it. Certainly, pieces had occasionally dropped off vehicles – usually vehicles that were old or badly maintained – but never quite in this manner.

  Odd. Definitely very odd, Morris thought.

  He stared out of the window again, his eyes catching one of the circus posters that, in the slight breeze, was attempting to escape the telegraph pole to which it had been attached.

  And something clicked. Odd, his mind repeated, but now there was a sudden familiarity about it and he pictured the car in another light, in another situation. Yes, of course! He had seen cars fall apart like that before.

  He stood and marched out of his office and cornered Constable Mulberry, currently manning the quiet front desk.

  "I think we need to bring some people in for questioning about Mr. Belcher's unfortunate accident," he barked.

  Mulberry, pencil and notebook poised ready, awaited his orders.

  With a grim set to his mouth, Morris said, "Arrest all the clowns."