It was six o’clock and quite dark. As he reached the road the snow flurry ended and there was a thin, icy moon and a frost. Henshaw’s place was harder to find than he had expected, because out of the village there were no street lights and the houses were hidden behind hedges. He went through the first gate and walked unexpectedly into a farmyard. He disturbed a dog lying in an outhouse. It barked loudly and an outside light was switched on. A woman came to the door and shouted out to know who was there.

Ramsay, embarrassed by his mistake and not wanting to frighten her further, waited until she returned into the house and went back to the road without being seen.

The next drive led to Henshaw’s house. It curved pretentiously through borders of immature shrubs. There was a light outside the front door of the house and many of the windows were lit and uncurtained so Ramsay could see quite clearly how to approach. The bungalow was modern, the red brick unweathered, faced in places with local stone. In front there was a large, terraced garden, and set into one of the paved terraces was a swimming pool, empty, the blue tiles glazed with frost. In a typical Northumberland summer, Ramsay thought, it could hardly have been used. The garden must be exposed to the wind, cold even in sunshine. Attached to the house was a large garage built of the same violently coloured brick. The door was open and inside were two cars: a small Renault and a new and expensive Rover. Ramsay walked on, unnoticed, past the living-room window, the sound of his footsteps apparently muffled by the double-glazed panes. Inside a woman was setting bowls of nuts and crisps onto small tables. She was bent away from him to fill the bowls and Ramsay could not see her face, only her wide thighs covered by stretched blue silk. The Henshaws were expecting guests.

When he rang the doorbell, there was a two-tone noise, the same pitch as an ambulance siren from inside. Beyond the tinted glass he was aware of a bustle, a hurried preparation. They thought, perhaps, that he was an early guest and they wanted everything right before they let him in. At last a man opened the door to him. Henshaw was tall, heavily built, with a profile of a kangaroo. Despite his bulk and his age—he was in late middle age—his movements were decisive and self-confident. He spoke first before Ramsay could explain why he was there.

“Who are you?” he demanded. He wore an open-necked shirt and held a glass in his hand, but there was nothing relaxed about him.

“Mr. Henshaw,” Ramsay said. “ I’m sorry to disturb you. Perhaps I could come in for a while?” He showed the man his identity card. Henshaw studied it carefully, then stood aside.