The woman nodded.

They had reached the pier and the woman stood up to leave. ‘You take care, love,’ she said. ‘Life’s a bugger at times, but there’s always a better day coming.’

Swallowing the lump in her throat, Milly gave her a grateful smile.

The press had turned up at Worthing Wonderland in force. Seebold, still in his mud-splattered clothes, posed with the dog, and the press photographers from the Worthing Herald, Worthing Gazette and the Fleet Street newspapers snapped away. While he told the story of how they’d caught the beast, Lena was persuaded to change into a pretty dress for her photographs. Half an hour later she was posing next to the dog’s cage, looking ‘as lovely as a film star’ as one man told her. ‘You look like Madeleine Carroll,’ said another. Lena was flattered. She’d loved Madeleine Carroll in Alfred Hitchcock’s The 39 Steps.

The evening papers were full of the story. Beautiful belle finds ferocious dog was one headline. Beast back behind bars thanks to beauty was another. Not quite what Seebold was hoping for, but publicity all the same.

Twelve miles away in Slindon, Crump was drowning his sorrows in the Spur public house. His editor hadn’t been that impressed with his latest story about a three-legged tortoise, but he had been really keen on the missing wolf story. That had brought a bevy of Fleet Street reporters down to sleepy Sussex, and they had hired local farmers to scour the countryside looking for the animal. Crump and his photographer had offered the Worthing Gazette the exclusive when the wolf had been found, but he didn’t want to publish.

‘That wolf looks more like a bloody dog!’ he’d exclaimed. ‘You’re taking the Michael, aren’t you?’ And as a result, Crump’s story was reduced to a few lines and put at the bottom of page eleven.

He sighed and swirled the last of the liquid in his glass. To think he’d been reduced to this: coverage of a bring-and-buy sale in the Coronation Hall. The only vaguely interesting thing about that was that the hall itself had been put up to commemorate the coronation of King George VI the year before.

The door burst open and a roughly dressed man stumbled into the bar.

What’ll it be, Doyle?’ the landlord called out. ‘You look as if you’ve lost five bob and found a tanner.’

‘Pint of best bitter,’ his customer said moodily. ‘I just found one of my best ewes stone dead.’

Nobody seemed that interested but, over in the corner, Archibald Crump pricked up his ears.

Now that Seebold was in the clear, people were coming to the Worthing Wonderland in droves. In fact, one coach company had even laid on a day trip. Things were looking up again, and Seebold was more than happy with his takings.

Later that afternoon, a car drew up outside his office and three men got out. Seebold recognised Archibald Crump and his photographer, but the third man was a stranger to him. Short and dressed in tatty clothes, he wore a flat cap.

After they’d exchanged pleasantries, Crump leaned forward in a confidential manner.

‘This is Mr Doyle,’ he said. ‘He’s a farmer over Slindon way.’

Seebold and Doyle shook hands cordially.

‘It would appear that your wolf has attacked and killed one of his best sheep,’ said Crump.

Seebold frowned. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said.

‘Really upset, so I was,’ said Doyle, snatching off his cap and wringing it in his hands.

‘Mr Doyle feels he should be compensated for his loss,’ Crump went on. ‘He was deeply shocked to find the body and he tells me his children helped to rear the poor thing when it was just a lamb.’

Seebold pursed his lips. ‘The wolf was found near Shoreham,’ he said. ‘Slindon is a devil of a long way away from there.’

‘No distance for a hungry wolf, I’m sure,’ Crump said with a cunning smile.

‘I can’t afford to lose one of my sheep,’ Doyle complained and, as he opened the boot of his car, a rancid smell seeped out, making Seebold turn his head in revulsion.

The photographer got two clear pictures.

‘You needs to cover my loss,’ Doyle insisted. ‘I could’ve had good money at the abattoir for the meat, and the fleece would have brought me at least a couple of quid.’

When Seebold examined the carcass, it was obvious that a knife had been used to enlarge its wounds, something which he did not hesitate to point out.

‘Come now, Mr Flowers,’ said Crump, waving his arms. ‘Looking around, I’m sure you can afford to help out a hard-working farmer. You wouldn’t want this in the paper, now would you?’

‘I reckon twenty quid might be fair compensation,’ said Doyle.

‘Oh, now I see what this is all about,’ Seebold exclaimed. ‘Well, I don’t give in to blackmail. That sheep has nothing to do with me and you know it.’

‘Don’t do something you might regret, Mr Flowers,’ Crump insisted. ‘Think of your reputation.’

‘I think you’d better clear off,’ Seebold retorted, and a moment later they were all having a blazing row.

In the days that followed, the dog settled down in its enclosure where Red Riding Hood peered in through the cottage window. It was a little unfortunate when the dog cocked its leg against the little model in front of a party of children, but otherwise the idea was a success and Seebold was proved right. It was a real crowd-puller.

Agatha closed the sitting-room door. Pearl and her husband were in the house and she wanted privacy. The London papers were spread out on the sofa, all of them filled with the story of a missing wolf, Seebold Flowers and Worthing Wonderland. Agatha had turned the pages with disgust and contempt. The News Chronicle had four whole pages of pictures, no less. Front page, page two and a two-page spread between pages six and seven. The Times didn’t go in for front-page pictures, but the correspondent had virtually filled page three, and the Express and Mail rivalled each other with their level of coverage.

The so-called wolf looked more like a mangy dog. It was big and it had pale eyes, but Agatha reckoned it was no more a wolf than she was the Queen of Sheba. In the newspaper picture, that dreadful gypsy man sat next to its enclosure, feeding it through the wire netting, while that Lena, all tarted up like a dog’s dinner, looked on. Agatha curled her lip. Cheap. Like mother, like daughter.

She reached for the telephone. ‘Number, please,’ said the operator.

‘East Preston six, nine.’

After a few minutes, a male voice answered. ‘Chief Superintendent Davey speaking.’

‘Hello, Reginald. Is that you?’ she said quietly, her voice small and concerned. ‘It’s Agatha, Agatha Shepherd.’

‘Agatha, my dear. How are you? We were sorry to hear about Charles. He was a good man.’

‘One of the best,’ Agatha agreed with a catch in her voice.

They exchanged a few niceties and then he said, ‘What can I do for you, my dear?’

‘I’m not sure how to put this, Reginald, but there’s been a bit of a flap going on in Worthing and I’m worried.’

‘Are you talking about the wolf debacle?’

‘Yes.’ Agatha hesitated. ‘Look, Reginald, you know I’m not one to cast aspersions, but I’ve had dealings with that Mr Flowers, and quite frankly, I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.’ She caught her breath noisily. ‘He came to the house and the next thing I knew, Millicent was in his lorry.’

‘Good Lord!’ cried the chief super. ‘You mean he kidnapped her?’

‘Not exactly,’ said Agatha, ‘but Millicent is completely besotted with him. The man is a thief and a liar, Reginald. I’m sure he’s still not telling the truth about that animal, and he has practically the whole county in an uproar.’

‘Really?’

‘It says in today’s paper that he caught the wolf himself and that it had been hiding in the bushes,’ she went on, her voice now becoming shrill. ‘But that can’t be true, can it? I mean, a wolf wouldn’t be sitting quietly in the shrubbery waiting to be caught! Why don’t the police do something? I mean, a man like him wouldn’t know the truth if it bit him on the bottom.’ She stopped as if to gather herself before adding in a more compliant tone, ‘Oh, I do beg your pardon. I didn’t mean . . .’

‘No, no, my dear. It’s quite all right,’ Reginald soothed. ‘You’re upset and worried about your daughter. I quite understand.’