Vic walked on through the trees. The release pen was almost finished. Wire mesh was stretched between high stakes, folded under at the bottom. It enclosed a cleared area of the wood and was open to the sky. There were funnels to allow the birds in and out. They would need an electric fence to keep away the foxes, otherwise it was done.

‘Oh,’ Craven said. ‘It’s you.’ He was squatting on a fallen log, smoking a cigarette. ‘You’re a bit late. It’s nearly finished now.’ He knocked the ash from the cigarette into his cupped hand.

‘I can see that,’ Vic said. He walked slowly round the perimeter of the fence, knowing that he was only putting off the time when he would have to talk to Craven.

‘Well,’ Craven shouted. ‘ What do you think?’

‘Fine,’ Vic said. ‘It’s fine.’ It was true. When Craven set his mind to it he was a good worker. He seldom set his mind to it.

‘Can I knock off now, then?’ Craven said.

Vic had completed the circuit of the release pen and had returned to Danny Craven. He nodded. Now he was here he felt a fool. Craven had been perfectly capable of finishing the task without supervision. Marcus Grenville was always telling him that he should delegate more but Vic found it impossible to delegate to Danny Craven. He suspected him of dishonesty, of poaching, of being a better keeper than he was. He did not like the way he looked at Marie. There was something about him that did not ring true.

Danny Craven carefully put out his cigarette and buried it under a mound of leaf mould. He began to pack his tools into a grey canvas army surplus rucksack. Then he stood up, slung the bag over one shoulder and began to walk towards the open fields. Vic followed him without a word. Somewhere above the trees a buzzard was calling, and the noise seemed to taunt him. Buzzards were legally protected but they took more young birds than any other raptor. In the old days this would have been the time of year for getting rid of them. There were still keepers in the county who took no heed of the law.

When they came to the edge of the wood Danny Craven turned and waited for him, as if surprised to find him still there. The buzzard floated over the trees and hovered above them, its long round wings fingered at the edges to maintain its position against the wind from the lake. Danny looked up at the bird.

‘There must be a pair breeding in that Forestry Commission land at the edge of the lake,’ he said, challenging, mischievous.

‘Aye,’ Vic said, defensively. ‘Well there’s nothing I can do about it. Not now, Mr Grenville’s orders.’