‘I’m all right, honestly I am … I just feel … numb … and God forgive me, but I feel relieved.’ Her voice breaks over her confession.

‘That’s a rum set of affairs,’ Ted growls. Gwen is struck by how pale he has gone. He looks even wearier than before.

‘The police are up there now apparently, crawling all over the place. I suppose it’s hardly surprising – his family will be demanding answers sharpish.’

‘It’s definitely not an accident … I mean, he hasn’t done it to himself?’ Gwen asks cautiously.

Muriel blows a dismissive gust through her teeth. ‘No … he’s been murdered, without a shadow of a doubt.’ The reality of the information drains her own colour. She stutters then falls silent, her swollen knuckles clenching the handlebars of the bicycle. ‘Who could have done such a thing?’

‘Well, there’s nothing can be done about it now,’ Ted says, taking a cigarette between his lips. His hand shakes as he brings up the match to light it.

‘I can’t say it’s not for the best.’ Jack studies the middle distance.

‘He hit his wife.’ Gwen’s voice sounds strangled. ‘I told her he’d do it again. I said he’d be like a dog that’s tasted blood … that they always have to be put down …’ She thinks of Helen Allingham’s crystallising resolve. ‘Oh God, you don’t think I …

But Jack quietens her with hushed reassurances. ‘Whatever has happened is not your fault, lass. You must never think that.’

Before she can reply, a navy Austin Twelve comes crawling along the lane. Tom, busy climbing a tree at the edge of the front lawn, pauses to watch it. When it turns in through the gate, he grabs the branch above him and dangles before allowing himself to drop, tumbling to his knees. Picking himself up, he swipes the grass stains from the heels of his hands and races to Gwen. He clings to her legs, his focus fixed on the approaching vehicle.

They wait warily for the car to come to a stop. Both front doors fly open at the same time, like the shell of a beetle preparing for flight. Two men emerge, both sombrely dressed and wearing nearly identical raincoats.

‘Afternoon, folks.’ The taller of the two reaches them first in an unhurried gait. He does not offer his hand, but tips the brim of his Derby, his perfunctory smile exposing crooked yellow teeth. Reaching into his inner pocket, he pulls out a small leather wallet and flicks it open, though they are too far away to read the identity card it contains. ‘Detective Inspector Alan Gibson. This is Detective Constable Davies.’ He sees at once his arrival is of no surprise. ‘You’ve heard then, have you?’

‘You’re here about Allingham?’ Ted deduces.

‘Mr Gordon Allingham was found shot dead this morning.’

‘That’s what we’ve heard.’