'Shoot the buggers!' said Sam Jackson. He spoke without emotion but with utter certainty. He was used to being obeyed.

His deputy sighed inwardly and blanched outwardly. Ernie Clark knew that his role was to exercise caution, to bring a little balance into their activities. 'I think we need to use a little discretion over that.'

'Discretion is bollocks. I didn't become a successful producer through discretion.' Sam removed the huge cigar from between his teeth and tapped an inch of whitish ash into the ashtray beside him. He didn't read many books, but he'd read about Hollywood and Samuel Goldwyn at MGM and decided Goldwyn was the man he wished to emulate. Television and not the cinema was Jackson's world, but his image was that of the movie mogul, and his method was to hire and fire like old Sam and to ensure in every way he could that his word was law around here.

Ernie Clark said, 'The British like subtlety. They prefer the puzzle of a whodunit to wholesale violence. They don't relish too many shootings or too much blood on their television.'

'Screw the British!' Sam had done quite a lot of that in his time, though he was slowing up a little now. A continual string of nubile girls presented themselves hopefully to him for auditions and the casting couch was one of the Hollywood features he had enthusiastically imported into Britain. But fifty-four years, seventeen stones, an insistently increasing girth and last year's heart attack had moderated his lubricity. Or, as he put it succinctly, 'made him use his dick more selectively.' He waved his cigar in the wide, vague arc which was all too familiar to Ernie Clark. 'We sell in forty-nine countries, so the British can go screw themselves.'

His deputy sighed again. This was a ritual they went through about once a month. His role was to put the economic arguments, but his boss wasn't really interested in any debate. Jackson was by no means as stupid as some people thought him, but he felt it necessary for his image to wave his cigar and assert his vulgarity. Clark said patiently, 'The money which finances the Inspector Loxton series is largely British. The series is set in Britain and our initial target audience is British. It is the audience figures here which help to sell the series around the world.'

'So give 'em what they really want. Reward them for their loyalty. Let the women drop their knickers and let the men who shag them get blasted to kingdom come. Sex and violence: it's a universal formula, that; it works anywhere in the world!' Jackson waved his cigar again and smiled his satisfaction; Sam Goldwyn must surely have said things like that in his heyday.

'That approach might work in a different series, boss, but not in this one. We have established a rather more sedate kind of mystery and we have a loyal following. If it ain't broke, don't fix it.' Ernie could bandy clichés with the best of them, when he felt it necessary.

Even Sam Jackson could not ignore the voice of commerce. 'You reckon? You think we can keep the viewing figures without blood and gore and bare buttocks?'

'For the Inspector Loxton series, yes. It's built around puzzles, not blood and tits and bums, Sam. We have our murders, of course, and they can be gory if you want that, but the main interest is the whodunit one. Our audience is interested in how Loxton unravels the mystery, not in him blasting the villains concerned off the face of the earth.'

Jackson nodded the reluctant acceptance he had always planned. He'd still get a few drawers to drop in a more private context, if he hadn't lost his touch with actresses. But the latest Loxton mystery would unlock itself in the traditional manner. A hardheaded businessman lurked beneath his determined vulgarity. 'OK, Clarky, on your own head be it. Where we going for this one?' As producer, Jackson left Clark to determine locations, but took the responsibility to set up everything else necessary for successful filming. He did that with an efficiency which surprised those who saw only his cigars and his coarseness. The success of the series meant that his budget had increased and things were easier now, but he knew that every day saved in the compiling of an episode added many thousands of pounds to the profits.

'I've found us an ideal area in Herefordshire and Gloucestershire. Nice little hamlet which we can cordon off easily for shooting, lots of green English countryside all around to add to the charm. Not too far from where we've filmed before but very rural. We shouldn't be troubled by the crowds of curious spectators who slowed us down in the last series.'

It was one of the penalties of success that interested fans gathered around the shooting locations. An enterprising coach company had even begun tours of 'Loxton country' around the original Oxfordshire setting.

Jackson nodded. 'How's the casting going?'

Clark knew what was expected of him here. Jackson nowadays employed others to do most of the recruiting, but he retained overall control of casting. He liked to interview females for minor roles himself. One of the perks of power, though no one acknowledged it openly as such. 'Most of the major roles are ongoing and we continue to use the people we've had in them from the start. There's a publican's wife and a couple of small waitress roles which we haven't cast yet. I thought you might be able to help us with those.'

'Sandra Rokeby, you thought.' Sam was studiously low-key. Rokeby had begun her career as a curvaceous page three bimbo. She had progressed from that to appearances in low-key British comedies where she usually managed to remove most of her clothes. She was well into her forties now, but she retained the kind of buxom presence which would still bring audience interest in a smallish role.

'Yes. She'd be another well-known name for us. And rumour has it that she hasn't been offered very much lately. She might be glad of the exposure we could give her.'

Jackson leered his delight in the double entendre. 'I'll see her if you like. Do what I can to recruit her to our gallant enterprise.'

'That would be useful, boss. See what your persuasive tongue can do for us.' He stared carefully out of the window on that.

Sam Jackson wrote 'Sandra Rokeby' in large careful letters on the pad in front of him.

Ernie Clark waited until he had his boss's attention again. 'Nearly everything else is in place. I thought we could call this one something like Horror in Herefordshire. People like a bit of alliteration. We should begin shooting at the end of April. I'm trying to arrange some advance publicity for us. If we get the locals involved we should be able to get some television coverage as we move into the area.'

Three months later, Chief Superintendent John Lambert was waiting to see his chief constable. Not many things made Lambert nervous. He realized now that a chief constable who was thirteen years his junior was one of them.

Even as a chief superintendent, you didn't meet your chief constable very often. The public demanded nowadays that their senior bureaucrats should be perpetually available to them, ready to comment on whatever might seem to be even vaguely within their province. All aspects of human behaviour seemed nowadays to demand some kind of reaction from chief constables. CCs had to be careful to give due attention to whatever statements they made. One of the consequences was that they...