She paused, and tried to form the words to tell him what was troubling her.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m fine. Just tired.’

The knock at the front door came at two o’clock and it surprised Marie. Most of their visitors were people from the estate who came to the back and walked into the kitchen without waiting to be asked. She was washing up the lunch things and Vic was in the front room watching football on the television. She had put Cassie to bed for a nap. At first she went on with the washing up because she thought Vic would answer the door. It was more likely to be for him – it would be Jeremy Grenville, perhaps, with some query that would not wait until the morning.

Living in a tied cottage meant that there was no privacy, even on a Sunday. She waited, a saucepan in one hand, but there was no movement from the front room and the visitor knocked again, firmly and without impatience. She dried her hands on a teatowel and went to answer the door.

Through the open living room door she saw that Vic was asleep in his chair, his legs stretched in front of him, his mouth slightly open. The television was still on, but he had turned off the sound and footballers chased after the ball without commentary. He had lit a fire and the room was very hot. There was a half-empty mug of tea by his chair and the Sunday tabloids were spread over the floor. She shut the door, ashamed of the mess, not wanting any visitor to see.

The man who stood in the porch was tall, gaunt-faced, very serious. Even if it had not been Sunday Marie would never have mistaken him for a salesman or a Jehovah’s Witness. He had too much authority and he dressed like a gentleman. She supposed he was one of Grenville’s friends who had lost his way and was about to direct him to the Cadver when he spoke.

‘Mrs Liddle,’ he said. His voice was precise, middle-class, just what she would have expected. ‘My name’s George Palmer-Jones. I wonder if I might talk to you.’

She stood aside and let him in, and still she thought he was something to do with Grenville, a member of the syndicate, perhaps, wanting to see Vic about the shoot. She was sure Vic would know him.

‘Come into the kitchen,’ she said, ‘ and I’ll tell my husband that you’re here.’

‘If it’s convenient I’d like to speak to you both,’ said the man as he took the chair she offered by the table.

That surprised her and for a moment she was frightened. What did this stranger want with them? Could it have anything to do with that other business?

‘I’ll tell Vic you’re here,’ she said again and hurried from the room.