Ramsay stood on the storm porch at Grey’s Farm and knocked on the door. He could see Robert Grey in the tractor shed, bent over the engine, but although the farmer must have seen the return of the Land Rover, he made no move to come into the house. Ramsay thought his feet were wet enough and refused to cross the muddy yard to fetch the man. The door was opened by the woman who had come into the yard when he had strayed into the drive by mistake. She was tall, attractive, rather grave. Her dark hair had a streak of grey along the centre parting. Behind her he saw a wide hall with uneven flags on the floor where eggs were stacked in trays.

“Yes?” she said, imperious, ready to send him away though she must have guessed who he was.

“I’m Inspector Ramsay,” he said. “Northumbria police. I’ll need to speak to you and your husband.”

“We’ll not be able to help you,” she said.

“A man was murdered on your land,” he said. “You can see it’s important that I talk to you.”

She opened the door wider to let him into the hall, then stood outside and called to her husband.

“Robert. Come here, please. The policeman wants to speak to you.”

It was the voice of a woman speaking to a child or an employee, not to an equal. Ramsay wondered what sort of relationship they had. He presumed that the farm had been inherited from her family and thought she might have married Grey to do the work. The man walked to join them. He was shorter than she was, slightly bow-legged. At the door he stopped and took off his boots.

“We’ll go into the kitchen,” she said. “ It’s the only warm room in the house.”

She must have been in the middle of baking. There were bowls and trays on the table and the smell of cooking in the air. On one chair there was a pile of unironed clothes, but the woman did not apologise for the mess.

“You’d better sit down,” she said.

“I won’t disturb you for long,” Ramsay said.

“Well,” she said. “You’ve done that already.”

He ignored her and turned to Grey.

“What time did you find the body?” he asked.

In his wife’s presence the man seemed even more awkward and inarticulate than he had before. It was not, Ramsay thought, that he was stupid. He had difficulty expressing himself as accurately as he wanted and that frustrated him.

“I don’t know,” Grey said. “ Not exactly. I went up the hill to see how much feed was left. In case there’s another cold spell. Quarter to twelve perhaps. It must have been about midday when I met you.”

“Yes,” Ramsay said. “When was the last time you went to the barn?”