A bullet whistled over his head and shredded a branch before burying itself in the trunk of a tree. It was no more than a bit of foreplay, though. Farnham heard the cocking of a hammer.

He began to run again, dodging left and right, slithering in the mud between the trees. He was almost back at his house, desperately trying to reach a phone, when the second bullet entered the back of his thigh, just above the knee. It snapped a tendon, punched a hole out of the femur and pierced the full thickness of his thigh muscle. The bullet emerged from a rip in his jeans and buried itself in the earth as he fell forward on to his face.

Farnham tried to get up again, but found his right leg refused to support his weight. He was crying as he flopped helplessly on the ground, terrified of the footsteps moving slowly towards him – a deliberate, skating tread which barely disturbed the wet leaves. He heard a rustling, and then a voice, quiet and low.

‘We all make mistakes,’ it said.

And Farnham never even noticed the third bullet.

When they’d finished what they came to do, the two men dragged Tom Farnham’s body back into the workshop and closed the door. Then they vanished as quickly as they’d come, slipping away into the darkness among the trees.

They left nothing behind them that moved. Nothing, except a thin, red ribbon of blood, meandering slowly across the concrete floor.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Two

Sunday

All Saints parish church in Edendale was unusually full for the Sunday-morning service. There was nothing like a baptism or a wedding to attract the sort of congregation you’d never normally get on a Sunday.

Cooper felt uncomfortable in his suit. He must have put a bit of weight on since he last wore it. Liz looked great, though. She’d broken out a dress from her wardrobe, put on shoes with heels and brushed back her hair. Cooper was unduly proud to be seen with her. She scrubbed up really well, as the saying went around here.

Across the aisle, Liz’s friend and her family were squeezed into the front three pews. Mums and grandmas had come in their best hats, and dads coughed uneasily, glancing at their watches, wondering whether they’d be free before the pubs opened. The baby herself was there somewhere, clutched by her mother in a long, trailing christening gown. She was a remarkably well-behaved baby, who hadn’t cried once yet.

When everyone was settled, the vicar began performing the introduction.

‘Here we are washed by the Holy Spirit and made clean. Here we are clothed with Christ, dying to sin that we may live his risen life.’