Timothé Durand parked his van in a small lay-by. He was early for his next delivery so he reckoned he could take ten minutes to smoke and stretch his legs a bit. The schedule these days was ridiculous. What with online shopping and the ever-widening delivery zones, there was barely any downtime for the drivers. It didn’t bother him too much. He liked being out in the countryside of his homeland; the farmlands and small towns of Normandy and Brittany were breathtaking.

It had been a perfect summer but now there was a cold wind. He cupped his hand around the end of his cigarette as he lit it, strolling down the lane to his left. The house at the end was a traditional French dwelling, stone-built with a slate roof and white-shuttered windows. He wandered over to get a better look. He’d always wanted a place like that.

The door to the small house stood ajar.

Timothé could hear a dog barking. He smiled. His childhood pup had been the same, always warning off imaginary invaders. He wasn’t sure what to do, so he stood awkwardly in the yard, taking in the last few drags of his cigarette.

Suddenly a wiry black and white mongrel ran out to meet him, barking and frantic. It sprinted from one side of the yard to the other then rounded on Timothé.

He almost took a step back but then reconsidered. It wasn’t a big dog, maybe ten to fifteen kilos. And Timothé knew dogs. If he stayed calm and still the animal was likely to relax. And that’s exactly what happened.

‘Bonjour, mon petit.’ Timothé bent down to stroke the dog and then jumped back in horror. His fur was covered in blood. It coated his every paw and was smeared down the animal’s left side. Timothé didn’t think it was coming from the dog – there were no obvious injuries – and the fact that his paws were coated suggested he had walked through the blood of another.

Timothé looked at the house with its open front door. The blood on the dog was dark and thick, so probably not fresh. Should he call the police? He figured they’d want more details than just a bloody dog, so he walked towards the house, the dog trotting at his side. It was only when he reached the door that he realized the barking had stopped. He looked down at the dog panting heavily and wondered how long he had been howling for help.

‘C’est bien, petit chien. C’est bien.’ He scratched behind the dog’s ears.

The smell in the house was bad, a combination of rotting meat and metal. Timothé had done work experience at the local undertakers as a teenage boy and recognized the scent. Something or someone was certainly dead and had been for a while.