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On the morning of MT’s sports day there was a deluge, and at eleven still no break in the clouds. Eleven was a special hour, according to Laura – rain at eleven meant rain for the rest of the day, because of the tides.

I found Ceri out shopping and took her to Bodawen’s cafe for a cup of coffee. ‘He’ll have to cancel it,’ she said, ‘or turn it into a swimming gala. Anyway, my father says that a malaise has come to town. That’s how he talks all the time. In metaphor.’ She dabbed some of the skin from the coffee off her upper lip. She had a beautiful, full mouth. ‘My mother takes great comfort from the fact that the victims are all new, not natives like us.’ She had a slow way of speaking that I found appealing. ‘But we sleep with all the bedroom doors open so we can call for help if he comes to the wrong house.’ She smiled. ‘Shouldn’t joke, though, should I? It’s panic stations. All over town. That poor old girl yesterday. It was even on the wireless this morning. The Police keep on telling Dad everything’s under control, inquiries proceeding; arrest imminent. All that. But old Mr Ellyott says this kind of killer is the most difficult to catch – no motive, or something. And there’s talk, Philip.’

‘What about?’

‘You three.’ She gave me a long, searching look. ‘About old Mash, especially...’

‘Why pick on Mash?’

‘I’m just telling you.’

‘Just because he’s got problems? That doesn’t make him...’

‘Don’t get rattled!’

‘Have you been told not to see me, then?’

‘I see who I like, Philip Roberts.’ And we had a long and angry silence which she ended by buttoning her mac and pulling her hat over her ears. ‘Back to the piano,’ she said, and she leaned across the table and kissed me. ‘Come on. Walk me home.’

Outside her house she said, ‘I can’t see you tonight. Not because of what you’re thinking. I’ve got some girls coming over for the evening.’ I looked up at the house and saw a curtain shift back into place. ‘But call for me here tomorrow – OK?’ I said I’d do that, and walked away and saw her face in all the puddles in the street.

‘You’re too deep for me, Philip,’ Idwal Morton said. ‘It’s all foolosophy where I’m concerned, not that deep stuff. But I suppose you’re right – wars change you. Though I missed them both.’

He sat very still at the cluttered kitchen table, the paper open at the racing page. ‘Yes sir. I’ve given up thinking.’ He ticked a horse. ‘It’ll all be the same in a million years.’ A train went by and he winced. ‘They let the German chappie go this morning. At least they were talking of letting him go. They haven’t got a clue; useless all of them – how d’you mean, you can’t remember?’

‘About how it was before the war. I can remember when I’m told – when somebody starts talking. Like Emlyn does...’

Idwal smiled grimly. ‘Oh, he remembers it all.’

‘But when I start thinking about it myself, I can’t remember.’

‘Anything in particular you want to remember?’

No I said, I didn’t think so. Idwal stared hard at the newspaper, tapping it gently with his pencil. ‘When I was young,’ he said, ‘I was going to be a world beater. I used to walk around thinking I could do anything.’ He spoke always as if he didn’t expect to be heard. ‘You learn you can’t.’ He looked at me then, a light in his deep-set eyes but no change in his voice. ‘You’re the strong one of the three. They listen to you. Tell Emlyn to stop pushing it, all right?’

‘Pushing what?’

Idwal looked up. ‘God, what is he doing up there? Takes him a day to comb his hair! Now he was picked up last night. Near the prom. Dressed himself up as a woman! Had a bloody steel bar this long under his arm! Decoy he says! Now you tell him to stop messing about.’

Emlyn came in. ‘Three guesses who you’re talking about,’ he said. Then, to his father, ‘Beg your pardon – we’re not speaking today are we?’

‘You are a stupid bastard,’ I said to him.

‘In retrospect, I agree. They were not amused.’

‘Why don’t you write them a letter and ask to be bloody well locked up?’

‘Granted, granted. But it might have worked.’ His face broke into a wide, cheeky smile. ‘You’ve got to take chances, though I was shit scared all the time. By the way, the Inspector is very anxious to have a word with you.’

‘Me? What about?’

‘Yours truly,’ Emlyn said, ‘I should think.’

Inspector Marks came out of his car on the High Street and called me over. He looked even more at the point of exhaustion than he had done the last time I’d seen him. A worn old face above a crisp white shirt. ‘I’ll come straight to the point,’ he said as we stood out of the rain in a shop doorway. ‘I’ve spoken to Emlyn Morton, who is very lucky not to be behind bars even if he was a hero in the war. We can tolerate no interference. The eye of the nation is on us.’ And he went on like that for quite some time. ‘There must be discipline. We know what we’re doing.’ He sighed deeply. ‘But – above all else – please keep that old man out of my way...’

‘Mr Ellyott? I’m not in charge of him.’

He gripped his brow. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘please. I look to you for discretion, so keep this to yourself.’ He looked around to see if we were likely to be overheard. ‘They kicked him out. Long ago. For malpractice, I understand. Do you follow me? Please – without saying anything to him directly, keep him out of my hair, I beg of you. This is not a comedy. I cannot face waking up to another day of him!’

‘I’ve no chance,’ I said.

‘I know.’ He nodded sadly. ‘I simply thought I’d ask.’

Coronation Park had been a gift to the town by the same lady who had left it with King Teddy’s statue. It had been opened with a flourish in 1911 with a flying display, but the plane had failed to clear the fences surrounding the ground. Thereafter it had had its ups and downs. Mainly downs. Now it bore the scars of its occupation during the war as a parking area for military vehicles, its tennis courts fissured, the football pitch covered in waist high grasses. The pavilion had lost part of its roof and its windows were boarded over. MT came blundering down the steps from the veranda to greet us, and his foot went through. ‘Halloo my bonny laddies,’ he called to us as he heaved himself free. ‘Not a bad sort of day, is it? Could be worse – eh?’ The rain overhung the park like a shroud – dense, placing limits on visibility.

Amos Ellyott was sitting on the veranda, a blanket over his knees and an umbrella open above his head. He was talking to Ceri’s father, a short and remote man staring at nothing through thick horn–rims. Inside the pavilion there were two dozen or more children, already wet, most of them involved in fights.

‘We are quite booked up for the junior races,’ MT declared, ‘but we have nobody for the senior events.’

‘They are pretending your sports day isn’t happening,’ Ceri’s father surprised us by saying. ‘This town – it has a genius for turning the blind eye. Even on murders. Nasty things do not happen here – not that your sports are in any sense nasty, of course.’

‘The hundred yards,’ MT went on, glancing at us meaningfully. ‘We must do something...’

‘Put us down.’ Emlyn volunteered, and clapped a hand over my mouth to stop any protest. ‘It’ll be a laugh,’ he smiled. MT went off clapping with delight.

‘Out there?’ I said. MT and Mash had rough cut a rectangular section for the track – it looked like a short landing strip in a jungle, and was brown and obviously water logged. ‘You must be out of your tiny mind.’

Emlyn was kneeling at a little boy’s feet, tying up his laces. ‘Mash is going to run,’ he reasoned, ‘therefore Mash has to have someone to run against.’ He looked up at me. ‘Got it?’

‘In the first place I’ve no kit,’ I said. ‘In the second place I can’t run anyway.’ The little boy, who had straight red hair and evil eyes, held a pair of tiny football shorts towards me and I knew I was beaten.

Emlyn smiled up at him. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Captain X,’ the boy replied. He turned and looked up in admiration, and I knew Mash had come in.

Mash was wearing shorts and a vest and carried a pair of spiked running shoes. ‘Tarzan,’ Captain X said in a whisper, and the children came crowding. Mash flexed his muscles for them, grabbed Sian Thomas and held her high, then gently lowered her to the floor and placed his huge hand on the crown of her head.

‘After the next shower,’ MT announced, ‘we’ll make a start.’ He began to take their names and ages. Captain X told him he could be seven or eleven; didn’t matter to him. ‘Astonishing,’ MT said, ‘but willing. Now, the band will be here in a minute and we’ll soon see the atmosphere buck up. How is the weather?’

‘Pissing down,’ an answer that came from a small boy named Robert Owen who had the frozen face of a practised ventriloquist. I looked out across the veranda. There was no other word for it.

At half past two the Brynbach Silver Band sent word that they would not be arriving owing to the inclement weather being bad for their tubes. They were all in the King’s Arms, the messenger reported, and had been there for some time. ‘Never mind,’ MT sighed. Ceri’s father wondered if it was all really appropriate, given the time and the occasions and the place and didn’t MT think that it would be better perhaps to abandon the sports. ‘Not until three,’ MT said firmly. ‘We never gave up until three in the old days.’

At three o’clock a halt to the downpour arrived and the sports day began. But after only a few races it became out of control. Each race became a swim and discipline broke down. Soon the clothes of each participant clung to them, and they revelled in it and kicked off their shoes and took no heed of the starter’s whistle or finishing tape. Now and then we had to go and rescue them from the deep water–logged ruts made by the army wagons long ago. Seven of them set out on a run, but only three returned. The rest we found among the tall grasses, hunting for tadpoles in an oily pool. ‘Not to worry,’ said MT, ‘everything is going very well.’

We poured hot tea into the children and wrapped them up between races with the towels MT had brought along, feeding them buns and cakes. ‘Be kind enough to bring me a list of suspected winners,’ Ceri’s father said to MT, ‘I have an appointment with the spokesman for the police.’ And he went marching off, shaking his head sadly.

‘Everything is going splendidly,’ MT assured us, patting his blazer pockets. ‘Looking for his whistle,’ Emlyn whispered. ‘I saw Captain X hiding it under a brick behind the pavilion. What a great bloody day!’

We stood side by side for the hundred yards, Mash in full running kit, Emlyn dapper in a pair of shorts and vest and me with my trousers rolled up to the knees, my shirt flapping. The children lined the track which was now like a swamp. ‘Ready, steady, off,’ MT cried out. Mash and Emlyn were away before I realised it was time to go, and after only a few skidding paces I was down. I watched the race through a curtain of grass. Emlyn stayed with him all the way, the children whooping and screaming, and Mash was only a close winner.

I was helped to my feet, brushed down by sympathetic hands. Emlyn came back blowing hard. ‘You wait,’ he said between gulps of air, ‘I’ll run him into the ground in the 400 – even if I have to suffer tomorrow.’

MT came up to me as I sat on the veranda wringing out my socks. ‘We carried on, Philip. Remember that. In spite of everything we carried on, yesterday and today, set in motion the revival of our little town. You remember don’t you, what a great place it used to be during the season?’ I nodded. Speech was out of the question. ‘You know,’ he went on, lowering his voice, ‘if I had to leave here – this town – I’d die. Only here can I really be.’ I heard the click of knitting needles in my ears. ‘I would do anything rather than leave this place. Excuse me – I am running in the 400 as well.’

Amos Ellyott was staring at me over his glasses. ‘Even the simplest of men can be aroused,’ he said. Mash was surrounded by small boys, distributing cake and pop. Emlyn was towelling a little girl’s hair, and talking to her, and she was close to wetting herself with laughter. Sunlight came in huge shafts of white. A thrush sang. ‘I hear someone answering Ridetski’s description was seen in the railway station lavatories two days ago. Did you know Emlyn Morton’s father was notorious for his violence as well as his womanising?’ Shut up, old man, I said to myself. ‘Philip, we are going to look for a single tower on a hill. I have come into possession of a photograph.’

‘Photo of what?’

The old man frowned. ‘Must you be so dense? A tower, one solitary tower on a hill.’

‘Here we are,’ MT cried out as he came bounding. He was wearing khaki shorts that hid his knees, a vest and tennis shoes. ‘Mr Ellyott – as a special favour – could I prevail on you to act as starter?’ The old man was agreeable but it took some time to get him to his feet and unlock his joints. But once on the field, still with his umbrella open above his head, he was suspiciously nimble.

‘You’re enjoying it too,’ Emlyn said to him.

‘Yes, but will I be here when you return?’ he replied.

I managed to stay on my feet during that race, but I finished last. Mash won by a short head from Emlyn. MT had to lie down to recover, his face puce, his eyes rolling. We had to give him the fireman’s lift back to the pavilion. ‘Line up everybody, for presentations,’ he gasped. ‘Then we’ll have the English, followed by “Land of my Fathers...”’

This was the part he really loved. The ceremony, the handshaking, a few words of encouragement and congratulation, a prize for everyone, then ‘God Save the King’, and he standing there to attention, long khaki shorts clinging wetly to thin white legs. Emlyn and Mash stood on either side of him watching the children at song, smiling at each other. Oh, Jesus, Jesus, I was surrounded by boys. And at that moment Robert Owen and Captain X, who hadn’t claimed their prizes, came running from the park screaming ‘there’s a lady in the grass!’

‘God save the King’ died on a note. We were all running up the track towards the tall grasses where the boys stood pointing. Emlyn, head back, went past me in a spurt. ‘You’ve got to stop them!’ he cried out. ‘Quickly – the kids!’ I had no idea what he intended, but I found some speed from somewhere and caught up with him, and the three of us turned, arms outstretched to face the children. They came running at us. ‘No further,’ Emlyn yelled, and they came to a tumbling halt and looked at us wide eyed and wondering. Behind them, hobbling slowly, MT was on his way, Amos Ellyott on his arm.

‘That’s it!’ Emlyn roared. ‘It’s a joke, see. Now – first to pass me and Mash gets half a crown. All right?’ He waited for a few nods, then he pointed towards the pavilion. ‘This is for the real championship. Are you ready?’ Then he was off, Mash at his side, and the children went whooping after them.

I turned to Robert Owen and Captain X, who stood at the edge of the tall grass, like Indian scouts, pointing. ‘In there,’ Robert Owen said, and suddenly I was in a rage and bawled at them to stay where they were and went stamping into the grass, sweeping it aside, not feeling the wetness of it. ‘Long way in,’ I heard Robert Owen call, and I was knee deep in brimming ruts, and swearing, ready to take on anybody, anytime. Until I saw the flowered dress, a ringlet of drowned hair with mud on it.

I was for going back to call the Inspector, and to hell with it. But I parted the grasses and took a closer look. A ragged remnant of floral cotton. A doll’s head, eyeless. I reached for it but couldn’t bring myself to touch it. All I could do was crouch there, staring.

MT and the old man came up behind me. ‘Having us on,’ he said. ‘The damn young rascals.’

‘Now it’s a game for children,’ I heard Amos Ellyott say.