Then in the evening during dinner, they’d had that extraordinary scene which had left them sitting in stunned silence. Since then, Tom had wondered what he would have done if he’d been in Rick’s shoes. Would he have gone to similar lengths to protect Martha’s feelings over something he knew would upset her? Probably, yes, he would. Husbands, wives, partners, they all did strange things at times. Nobody was immune from doing something out of character. Or doing something that was just plain bloody weird, like secretly burying a dead cat behind a garden shed and inventing a story that was nothing but a tissue of lies.

To have kept up the pretence must have taken some doing on Rick’s part. Tom would have caved in and come clean with Martha. Maybe that was because his wife was not one to leave a stone unturned when it came to her rooting out the truth or getting to the bottom of something. Moreover, she was invariably right to do so. Was she right in this instance to regard Rick the way she did, with such apparent disdain?

The grass cut and the mower put away, Tom washed his hands in the small utility room before pushing open the kitchen door. Martha was sitting at the table working on her laptop. He had left her there more than an hour ago. She was determined not to be accused of slacking because she was pregnant, so was working harder than ever. Some of her colleagues had guessed she was pregnant and with the news out, she had officially informed HR of the situation.

‘Much more to do?’ he asked, going over to the fridge to help himself to a cold beer.

‘Nearly done,’ she replied. ‘Can you put the kettle on for me, please? I’d love a cup of tea.’

‘Herbal, decaf or proper builder’s tea?’

‘I’ve had my daily quota of proper tea, so it had better be decaf,’ she said.

With the lid off his bottle of beer, Tom drank thirstily from it, then set about the business of making Martha a mug of tea. ‘Chocolate mini roll with it?’ he offered, knowing that she currently couldn’t eat enough of them.

‘Please,’ she murmured absently.

When all was ready, he joined her at the table.

‘There,’ she declared, pushing the laptop away from her and stretching her back, then rubbing her baby bump, ‘finished.’

‘And here’s your reward,’ he said with a smile, passing her the mug of tea and mini roll.

‘You’re a saint,’ she said.

‘Aren’t I just? What would you like for supper? I reckon it’s warm enough for a barbecue, if you’d like it.’

‘Sounds heavenly. And thank goodness we haven’t got Rick-the-Cat-Killer here to nag you about cooking the meat properly.’

Tom took a long swig of his beer. ‘You know you really should stop calling him that. One day you’ll say it to his face by accident. And besides, he didn’t intentionally kill the cat, did he?’