He wanted to talk about the state of things, his strange sense of being rudderless and slightly adrift, of his life having no focus. It was not unhappiness, frustration or even boredom though there was a kind of staleness. Maybe he needed to consider moving to another force, larger, more challenging. But he had come from all that, and besides, although Lafferton had its quiet spells those were becoming fewer and now his job was as big as he wanted. The Met had been an exciting place for a rookie PC and then for one climbing the first rungs of the CID ladder, but he had no wish to return. London was a young man’s game, unless you wanted to gain top rank and be stuck at a desk.

Perhaps it was the flat. Perhaps he had spent long enough living in Cathedral Close in the centre of Lafferton. Perhaps, as he had occasionally fantasised, he was ready to move right out of the town, into a cottage in one of the surrounding villages which had not yet been spoilt by developers. There were still a few of those left, if you knew where to look.

An ambulance went past, but not in a hurry, no lights or sirens.

His restlessness had even affected his drawing, and the books he read. He had finished the series of sketches, of the gargoyles in the cathedral roof, which had taken him eighteen months, they had been framed and put on display in the crypt, and now were being reproduced in a book, together with a commentary, though goodness knows how long that would take to be ready. Since then, though, he had done little, and been nowhere very interesting from an artist’s point of view. At times when he was particularly busy, he usually read a classic novel or a biography, followed by something contemporary, interspersed by a favourite P. G. Wodehouse if he was especially tired at the end of the day. Now, he was halfway through rereading both Bleak House and Martin Amis’s London Fields, but they sat about the flat with markers stuck between their pages, and when he picked them up, he often lost focus after half an hour. He did not altogether know himself.

A sudden wind had got up, rain was lashing the windscreen, and as ever when he felt like this, he turned in the direction of the farmhouse, knowing he was likely to find someone, if not everyone, at home, a drink and food and talk.

Kieron’s car was not in the drive, and when he was out Cat always kept the doors locked, but as Simon had a key, he let himself in, calling out from the hall, although she would have heard his car. No one responded but there were voices in the kitchen.