As soon as he had spoken he regretted the words. It wasn’t Marie’s fault that there was all that trouble at work. He knew it was irrational to vent his anger on her.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean it. You know how Craven gets on my nerves.’ But to his horror Marie had already started to cry.

When Molly awoke, George was already up and out of the house. She presumed he was on the hill looking for poisoned bait. He had brought her tea, perhaps even tried to wake her, but the mug stood now on the bedside table, the tea cold, the milk turned into a greasy film on top. The room was filled with bright morning sunlight which shone through the smeared glass of the window. She got out of bed and went to run a bath. The bathroom was gloomy with peeling wallpaper and a damp patch on the ceiling. When she turned on the taps the water choked and gurgled in the pipes and came out in a scalding rush. She lay in the bath until the water was almost cold, remembering Ursula, wishing she had made more effort as an adult to know her better.

When Molly went downstairs George was still on the hill. She felt childishly resentful of his absence. They were supposed to be partners but still he took the lead in the investigation, only feeding her information when he thought she was ready for it. He’s not always right, she thought spitefully, remembering small victories, the times when he had made important mistakes. She knew he did not mean to exclude her – he had worked alone for so many years that it was a habit – but still it rankled that she had to prove her worth.

Perhaps he’s missed something, she thought as she went into the office where the piles of paper still stood on the desk, but she knew he was far more thorough than she could ever be. She looked around the tiny room hoping for some lead that would provide an excuse for not checking George’s work. Hanging on the wall above the desk was a calendar, donated by a fertiliser company. There was a small space by each date, with just enough room to write in appointments. Ursula, it seemed, had hardly had a full social diary. The whole of March was empty except for one entry in the week before her death. Alex, it said. 4.00 p. m.

Molly remembered immediately who Alex was. Alex was Kathleen Prime’s great-niece who had inherited Monk’s Wood. Molly had met her a couple of times when the old lady was still alive, but knew her most by reputation. Kathleen loved to tell stories about her fiery nature, her ability to shock her parents.

‘She takes after me,’ the old lady had often said. ‘My spirit must just have missed a generation.’