He appears as stunned as she is. Laying the shotgun on the bed he carefully picks up part of Jack’s creation – a beautifully carved Flying Scotsman, hand-painted in apple green and glazed so it shines. Enrapt, he moves the tiny wheels at its base. He sets it back down upon the lovingly constructed track, half-painted in black lacquer, and whistles in admiration.

‘It’s a train set,’ Gwen whispers. ‘He’s making a train set.’ A broken laugh escapes her, causing the Inspector to look round. Bittersweet joy cracks her heart. ‘Tom’s wish for Christmas … Jack’s making it come true.’

Chapter Fifty-Eight

She tries but she cannot settle. Worry is her constant companion and it casts a long shadow. Muriel’s attempts to reassure her fall on deaf ears, and when Tom asks where his daddy has gone, she is too choked to answer.

She decides to keep herself busy by fulfilling the chores already allotted to the day. She returns to the scuffle and attaches it to the patiently waiting Bobby. She is comforted by the familiarity of the broad leather reins in her hands and welcomes the occupation of the task ahead.

But Bobby strides down the furrows with such instinctive precision that the labour does not provide the longed-for distraction. As the blades of the scuffle slice through groundsel and charlock, her mind wanders back to Jack and her thoughts churn so rapidly she becomes dizzy and sick.

She tortures herself by imagining him in a police cell, or being interviewed in some dank basement room. But worse, she wonders how long it might take for the police to connect him to the murder in Newcastle. The breathtaking selfishness of her actions drives a knife into her heart. Her dogged pursuit of her own self-interests has built Jack’s gallows. He has risked his life by staying to help her and she has thanked him by tying his noose. Her shame runs deep and fear chills her to the bone.

‘Gwen!’

She quickly wipes her cheeks. Ted is hurrying through the gateway. His boots sink into the damp soil as he crosses the field to reach her. He looks surprisingly haggard and his cheeks sink even further as he takes a final draw on the cigarette burning between his yellowed fingers.

‘I’ve just come from the village. Iris said the police have taken Jack in?’

He is out of breath, his chest wheezing. She loops the reins around the handles of the scuffle and nods.

He swears and snatches off his grubby cap. His hand rests on the back of his neck. ‘Why? Why have they taken Jack? He can’t have had anything to do with it, can he?’

The darkened tack room window plays again in her mind’s eye, but she also thinks of the train set. Could she have missed a flicker of light inside?

‘His name has come up …’