He could hear Mack breathing heavily at the other end of the line. What was he doing? It sounded like a dirty phone call.

Knott had followed him to the hall, shredding his piece of paper as he went.

Luca took what was left of it from his mouth and turned back to smooth it on the small, much-oiled expanse of wooden countertop between sink and hob. It was a letter in faded blue fountain pen on old-fashioned watermarked paper, the handwriting distinctively round. Dear Piggy, he read. Please destroy this the moment you have read it like all the others. I know you will. And thank goodness for you.

It was a love letter, he realised.

We are so alike, you and I, so wretched in our wretched honour. I was supposed to be coppicing this morning but I sat up on the old wall by the fattest elm and watched you ride for a whole hour, unable to tear my eyes away. It was the most beautiful sight, outshining every grace of nature, the copper beeches bowing as you passed, the grass beneath you sighing. I imagined you saw me. Did you? It was as though you were riding for me.

‘Would you mind giving her a message, Luke?’

He jumped guiltily, pushing the letter away. ‘Sure.’

More heavy breathing.

‘Will you tell her that I know you two have been fucking for months, and that I will fucking come over there and kill you if you lay one fucking finger on her again. Got that?’ The call ended.

Luca’s palm splayed on the tattered paper. Today just got better and better.

He carefully refolded the chewed letter and went to pick up the rest, tidying them into the shoeboxes as best he could – he had to throw out the soiled lid – and cramming them into the dresser. He then tracked down a pile old Daily Express newspapers, neatly stacked by the fireplace, which he used to cover the wet patches on the quarry tiles, all the time girding himself to return to the feed room. Straightening up, the yawn that racked through him almost split his jaw.

Fuck it. Let them sort it out between them. He was going to bed. Wherever that was. From now on, he would be utterly professional. He would not flirt with the boss or fight with her children. He would stay in Compton Magna long enough to help Beck, and for Ronnie. He would have absolutely nothing more to do with Pax Forsyth beyond rigid professional politeness.

‘What are you doing in here?’ She burst in, all red hair and bobble hat, like Where’s Wally.

‘Yes, what are you doing in here?’ The small, fierce sister was behind her, fists tight at her sides.

Great.

‘I answered the phone.’

‘There’s one in the house you can use,’ snapped the sister. Then, remembering her manners, she thrust out a hand. ‘Alice Petty.’

‘Luca O’Brien,’ he said, shaking it and finding his fingers gripped and released as though shut in a car door. ‘And I’ve not actually been in the house yet.’