Craven set the milk bottle on the table with a bang. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘You don’t understand what it’s like. How could you, all cosy and cared for in Keeper’s Cottage? You don’t know what it’s like on your own so don’t give me all that crap!’

He was shaking and a nerve under his eye began to twitch uncontrollably. He got up suddenly and put tea-bags into mugs. The man’s a nervous wreck, Liddle thought, then he looked at the slouching figure, unshaven, dirty, and his irritation returned.

‘We’ve all got problems,’ he said shortly. ‘Families bring problems of their own.’

‘Oh!’ Craven said. ‘For Christ’s sake. If you’re going to start preaching you can piss off.’

But he poured boiling water into each of the mugs, pressed the teabags with a spoon until the liquid was brown then scooped the bags into the sink.

‘Help yourself to milk,’ he said. The bottle he had been drinking from was still on the table. He reached into a cupboard for a bag of sugar.

‘I’m here because I wanted to talk to you,’ Liddle said, suddenly conciliatory.

‘If it’s about the van it’s at the pub. I was over the limit so I walked home. I’ll get it later.’

‘No,’ Liddle said. ‘It’s not that.’ Reluctantly he poured milk into his tea. He hesitated.

‘Go on!’ Craven said aggressively. ‘What is it? What else am I supposed to have done now? Get on with it.’

‘Nothing,’ Liddle said. ‘So far as I know you’ve done nothing. At least that’s what I’ll say. Someone was at my house yesterday afternoon, snooping. It’s possible that he’ll come to see you too. I wanted to warn you.’

‘Who would that be, then? The poll tax inspector?’

‘For God’s sake, man!’ Liddle lost his temper. ‘ This is serious. If this goes wrong we could both lose our jobs and the chance of ever being employed as keepers again. We’ve got to decide on a story and stick to it.’

Craven looked up at him. He smiled as if he were suddenly pleased with himself and Liddle wondered if was being deliberately provocative.

‘All right, then,’ Craven said. ‘I’m listening. Who was this mysterious snooper?’

‘His name’s Palmer-Jones,’ Liddle said. ‘He’s staying at Back Rigg. His wife was Ursula Ottway’s niece. He claimed he just wanted to ask a few questions, but he took away a jar that’d had phosdrin in it. It was empty, though I’d swear that the last time I went into the shed I noticed it was half full.’ He looked at Craven. ‘Not that I told him that.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Craven said, ‘ what this has to do with me.’ He smiled again. Liddle tried to control his temper.