The first thing I did that morning, after eating a very belated bowl of cornflakes and downing a hot, super-strong coffee in the canteen, was to pay a visit to Jung Byung Hee in his office. 

"Terrible business. Terrible. I just don't know who would do a thing like that to Joonie, I really don't."

"Do you know him well, Mr Jung?" I asked, gazing out of the window and across the bustling factory yard, where a driver was busy loading boxes into the back of a van with Jung's name emblazoned on the side. 

"Used to work for the same company, when we were younger. I don't have so much to do with him now. Two similar businesses in the same town doesn't make for the closest of friendships, I suppose."

"He was doing well, then? Making things difficult for you?"

I glanced outside again. There was really no comparison between this mammoth enterprise and what had, until last night, been Lee Joon's place. 

He laughed. "He was never any threat to me. There were some boxes of old stock in that factory of his that had been there for years, gathering dust. Covered in cobwebs, I shouldn't wonder! He has a lazy approach, you see; doesn't keep up with the times. He had to sell cheaply or nobody would have bought his stuff at all. Bargain basement goods rather than quality, if you know what I mean. To be honest, I reckon he only had a year or so left and he'd have gone under. Not that he'd have minded much. It's his wife who really holds the purse strings. She's the driving force, the power behind the throne. She comes from a rich family, you see. They wouldn't have gone short. In fact, it's her I feel most sorry for backing a loser like Joon."

"Mrs Lee is a friend of yours?"

"Sergeant," he said. "That woman has refused to speak to me for years. Ever since she first got mixed up with Bill. But I still have a lot of respect for her. She's had to put up with a lot."

"Did she know about the state of the business, do you think?"

"I expect so. It was no great secret, and she's a shrewd woman. Comes from a big manufacturing family, but her father's company all went to her elder brother. She chose to step back from it and marry instead, but she'd been running things herself, I might have had a real competitor on my hands"

He offered me a whisky from a huge decanter on the cabinet behind the desk, turning to pour one for himself, then seemed to realise it might not be the most appropriate gesture. "Sorry, Sergeant. I'm just used to doing business this way, and with men mostly. Helps oil the wheels. Of tipple of choice. Maybe you'd prefer a drop of wine...?"

"Not while I'm on the duty, sir, thanks all the same. Wouldn't say no to a cuppa, through."

He buzzed through to his secretary, and tea was produced almost instantly. We drank in silence before I pulled on my coat and prepared to leave. "Just one more question, sir. Could I ask what size shoes you wear?" He looked at me in suprise.

"Strange question," he laughed.

"Eleven and a half, sometimes twelve, you know" I nodded. Yes I did know, inwardly cursing the size five boots my toes were squashed into today because the shop didn't do the style I liked in half size and the sixes were way too big. 

"Thank you, sir. Thank you very much." I closed the door behind me and took a stroll back through the vast factory yard to where I'd parked my car in the street outside, my boots pinching like mad, and thinking things out in my head as I went . 

The route back to the police station took me past the remains of Lee Joon's factory, and I thought I'd better stop for a quick look around. I picked my way through the muddy flower-beds and stood by the perimeter fence, gazing up at it. It was at least eight feet high, made of thick wire with no obvious footholds. It would take someone fairly agile to get over that. It was on a busy road, too, and he'd have had to be quick to scale it without being seen, even at night. 

A couple of uniform boys were still poking about in the grounds and, as I started towards the gate, one of them called after me.

"I think we've found something else here, Sarg."

There, tangled up in a jagged section of broken wire, about halfway up the fence, was a ring. I pulled on some gloves to avoid marking it with my own fingerprints and carefully extricated it, turning it over on my palm. It was a man's gold ring, engraved on the inside with three initials: B.C.Y. yet another revealing clue left at the scene. Someone really was careless. Just as the Chief had said, this was an amateur we were dealing with here.