The next phase of the Plan called for a curfew. Beginning when darkness came (for it was widely believed that axe-murderers did not work during the hours of daylight), no villager would be allowed outside their home. During the night, the police would be divided into groups to patrol the streets and lanes, ensuring no villager (or axe-murderer) was breaking curfew. The nocturnal movements of the police were carefully organised by Mr Pankhurst and the Parish Council, with the help of Lanky.

In the meantime, no villager was to leave his or her neighbour unaccompanied during the night: safety in numbers, first and foremost, but the Plan's clever, second reason was this: Ideal Village had not welcomed a new villager for several years now, which meant the axe-murderer must be a well-established parishioner pretending to be something he or she was not. With nobody able to move unaccompanied, the Plan ensured that everybody was watching everybody.

During the hours of curfew, help was never more than a phone call away, for two policemen remained at the police station to man an emergency hotline; and it was these two men Mr Cavendish was now watching.

The first was Mickey Rope. He had come to Ideal Village because he wished to be the type of constable that was so often seen on television programs depicting rural, country life: the kind of amenable officer perhaps not best suited to police business but popular in the community because of it.

The second was none other than Charlie Pankhurst, the son of the village Mayor and Chairman of the Parish Council, Mr Pankhurst.

Charlie's shiny commendation medal was pinned to his chest as he and Mickey sat in the Incident Room, manning the emergency hotline. A sheen of sweat coated Charlie's face, and his arms were wrapped around his stomach as he rocked back and forth in his chair.

Mickey looked up from the comic he was reading, and frowned at his fellow constable. "Are you nervous, Charlie?" he asked.

Charlie shook his head.

Mickey sniffed, pulled a disgusted face, and waved a hand as if to clear the air. "Are you sure? You smell like you are."

"I'm sorry," Charlie said. "It's my guts. I had a curry for tea, and it's not agreeing with me."

"Can't you use a cork or something?"

"I'd better call my dad and warn him. He ate the same as me tonight."

But when Charlie leant forward to grab the telephone on his desk, his stomach gave a loud, agitated gurgle. Charlie froze, then shot a glance at Mickey.

"Gotta go!" Charlie announced, and he rushed upstairs to the toilet.

Suspicious, Mr Cavendish left Mickey Rope to man the hotline alone, and followed Mr Pankhurst's son to the upper floor of the police station.

Charlie was a likeable boy, but something of rarity, too; born while his parents already lived in Ideal Village, he had yet to decide what it was he wanted above all other things. He had joined the police force at the suggestion of his father, who thought it would make an excellent stopgap, especially as being a police constable followed in the footsteps of his dear departed mother. Could it be that Charlie Pankhurst had finally decided what he wanted to be? Was his deepest wish to become an axe-murderer? Was his upset stomach a good excuse to go and fetch his weapon of choice to use on poor Mickey's neck?

These questions were answered as Mr Cavendish stood outside the toilet cubicle, listening to the ugly and unpleasant sounds emanating from within Charlie. No, the lad was not an axe-murderer, and his ailment was undoubtedly genuine.

As he left Charlie to it, Mr Cavendish suddenly heard a sound of voices from downstairs. Though too low and muffled to understand or recognise, the tones were calm and the conversation seemed peaceable. Mr Cavendish guessed a street patrol was checking in with the hotline. But then came a very different sound – a dull sound, like a wet thud, or the noise a spade makes when it slices into damp earth. It came again, and again. It almost sounded like ...

Mr Cavendish ran down the stairs.

Mickey Rope still sat in his chair, comic in hand. But his head hung back, unnaturally so, only connected to his neck by the few tendons which remained un-severed. His blood decorated the wall behind him in streaks and blotches like a piece of abstract art.

Mr Cavendish left the Incident Room and entered reception, where he found the front door to the police station ajar. He looked outside onto the moon-bathed high street just in time to see a figure wearing a hooded cloak making his or her escape. As the figure ducked into a side alley, Mr Cavendish caught the glint of moonlight reflected from the head of an axe, and then whoever it was had disappeared.

A moment later, a police patrol emerged from a lane on the opposite side of the road, and began walking along the high street, away from the police station. Mr Cavendish shouted to them; but no matter how loud he tried to make his voice, the constables did not hear him – they could not hear him – and they continued their patrol as if nothing was amiss.

Mr Cavendish heard groaning coming from within the police station. He rushed back to the Incident Room where he found Charlie Pankhurst returned from his emergency trip upstairs. Charlie was staring at Mickey Rope's corpse, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open. He groaned as if he was somehow registering every chop of the weapon that had ended the life of his fellow constable. Then Charlie retched and ran back to the toilet.

Mr Cavendish did the only thing left to do. He activated the police station's emergency alarm, and the bells clanged throughout Ideal Village.