As Sant drove down Woodhall Road, the bakery factory on one side and the disused quarry on the other, he sensed flickering blue bouncing back at him from low mist above. The lights came in fits and starts. Piercing the hazy blue were white and red streams of traffic slithering along the dual carriageway beyond.
He came to a cattle grid and parked his Fiesta behind a crime scene investigation van; said hello to a couple of uniforms on guard duty; squeezed through a stile beside the cattle grid.
Taking long strides over endless holes in the road, Sant then straddled an icy ditch to one side and followed a half-beaten path bordered by barbed wire. He heard the distant sound of bleating but saw no lambs. The pong of cow muck seeped into his nostrils. Most of the people he knew hated the sten
