The tang of ammonia hits the back of her throat as soon as she opens the coop door. She delivers the hens to the straw-strewn shelves and soon they are chirruping with contentment as their thin eyelids beginning to droop. She fills their hoppers with grain and water, then draws the door shut behind her. A vixen screams from the copse behind the farm as she lifts the bar into place.

The night is still as she walks from the paddock, the leftover grain shushing over the bottom of her pail. She closes the gate and crosses the rough ground behind the buildings, before plunging into the shadowed passage between the stable block and the milking parlour.

‘You missed our meeting.’

She lets out a throttled cry as Gordon Allingham emerges from the darkness. He draws towards her, moonlight throwing his face into relief, revealing features that once quickened her heart with joy, but which now instil sheer terror. Her fingers tighten around the pail’s wooden handle.

‘What do you want?’

‘I want to talk to you. About Tom.’

Bile rises from her gullet as his voice caresses the name of her son.

‘There’s nothing to talk about.’ She attempts to pass him, but he sidesteps to block her.

‘We both know that’s not true.’

‘I know no such thing. You’re not welcome here, Gordon.’

‘Well, I’ve no intention of leaving. Not until I’ve said what I’ve come to say.’

‘And what’s that?’ Gwen’s temper bites. ‘What could you possibly have to say to me after all these years?’

‘I want my son.’

She thrusts out her chin, her heart hammering against her chest. ‘I can’t help you there.’ Her bravado is like gossamer. ‘I don’t know what delusion you’re labouring under, but if you think Tom is your son you are wrong.’

‘You can tell yourself that as much as you like, but we both know it’s not true.’ He moves closer. ‘Tom is my son. You seem to forget you told me you were carrying my child … and I have your letters to prove it.’

Gwen’s blood runs cold. Christ, the letters!

‘They prove nothing,’ she says, buying for time.

‘Really?’ He chuckles; the sound is chilling. ‘So, who are you claiming Tom’s father to be?’

‘My husband is Tom’s father.’

‘Is that so? That’s not what you wrote.’

Gwen had almost forgotten about the existence of her desperate missives, posted in passion. It had never crossed her mind that Gordon might have kept them, but if he has, they now put Tom in more danger than she could ever have imagined. She needs to mitigate their significance – by any means.