‘All excited she was, Iris. Her brother is coming down to stay.’ Blood roars through Jack’s ears, distorting Kip’s panting, and muffling Ted’s words. ‘He’s the one from Newcastle, the detective …’

‘I remember,’ he snaps.

Jack burrows his fingers deeper into Kip’s fur until they are trembling against the creature’s skull. The dog ceases to pant. Its dark eyes lift to Jack. He pulls back his hand.

‘You know …’ Ted starts, a hint of cunning in his voice, ‘I can’t get over how certain she was that you were from Newcastle and not Sunderland.’

‘It was a mistake, that’s all.’

‘Funny how locals can pick up on variations in accents like that.’

The weight of Ted’s gaze is unbearable. Jack scrambles up, his heart hammering. Kip rises, ears pricked, alert.

‘Jim and Gwen are back.’ Relief floods over him as they appear in the gateway, water slopping over the tops of their pails. ‘I’ll go and help them.’

‘He’s coming for work,’ Ted calls after him. Jack stops. He does not turn around, though he is aware of the farmer getting to his feet. ‘Iris’s brother. I thought he was coming down for a holiday, but no … it seems something more serious is bringing him this way.’

With the horses watered, they start work again, moving through the crop until the field is dotted with clumped stooks and there is only one corner left to harvest. Ted retrieves his rifle and wraps the shoulder strap around his wrist, stalking forward as Jim turns the horses into the final quadrant of the field. He brings the stock to his shoulder and sights his aim.

There is a flash of grey from the stand of corn, closely followed by another leaping dart, and behind that a dashing white scut. The rifle cracks. Ted rattles the bolt and swiftly lifts the gun again; it bucks into his shoulder, another shot splitting the air. He breaks it open, fumbling in his trouser pocket for more cartridges, slotting them down the barrel, before snapping the gun shut. The action is swift and practised and Jack starts as the gun blasts again and again.

Eventually Ted walks back to them, the rifle broken over the crook of his arm, holding six limp rabbits by their back feet. Blood drips upon the golden stubble.

‘It’s instinct, you see,’ Ted says, holding the dead animals aloft, a curious glint in his eye that renders Jack ill-at-ease. ‘When there’s nowhere left to hide there’s only one thing you can do – take your chances and run for your life.’

Chapter Twenty-Six

Gwen

August 1945