When he introduced himself and told her what he had come to talk to her about, he could see her bending her head forward to listen closely to his words. He suspected she was not just hearing what he said, but listening to his accent, judging whether he was local, assessing from his manner whether he was worth talking to.

To his surprise, she lit a cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke. So the door to the bar was kept closed for Health and Safety reasons. No one would realize that there was a free passage of air into the kitchen.

‘Who else have you spoken to?’ she said eagerly, when Cooper told her the purpose of his visit.

‘Oh, Mr Palfreyman. Mr Farnham.’

‘Tom Farnham? Did you ask him about his wife?’

‘He’s a widower, isn’t he?’

‘Yes, but you know what they say – a widower by choice.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Well, it’s only gossip, I suppose. It’s just what people were saying at the time.’

‘Are you suggesting that Mr Farnham killed his wife?’

‘Not me. It’s what I heard, that’s all.’

‘He was never charged with anything. The inquest verdict was accidental death.’

‘Well, they never found any evidence. It doesn’t mean he didn’t kill her, does it? The perfect murder is the one they can’t prove you committed.’

‘It’s a point of view,’ said Cooper.

Privately, he wanted to agree with Mrs Dain. There were plenty of cases where the police believed they knew the perpetrators of crimes, but were never able to prove their guilt in court. It was a mistake to believe that their aim was to achieve justice. Most effort was concentrated on putting together a strong enough case for a prosecution. Without sufficient evidence, and without a rigid adherence to procedures in gathering and presenting it, the concept of justice became academic. It was an interpretation of the criminal justice system that wasn’t normally shared with members of the public.

‘I know how easily these rumours get around,’ said Cooper. ‘But it’s unwise to repeat them, Mrs Dain.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t repeat it to anybody else,’ said the old lady hastily. ‘But I thought it would be all right in your case. I mean – you know what it’s like, don’t you?’

When the kitchen door opened again, Cooper caught the sound and smell of sizzling onion rings. He was starting to feel hungry. Cutlery rattled and a girl emerged from the kitchen and went into the bar with two plates of food. Proper countryside portions, too – the plates were laden. Cooper inhaled as the onion rings passed by.

‘It would be about five years ago. Your husband was the licensee then.’

‘His name was over the door. But I ran the pub.’

Cooper smiled. ‘Yes, that’s what I heard.’

‘You heard right.’

‘At that time, there were some itinerant workers employed at Pity Wood Farm.’