The man had started to move: he walked down the mud track, pausing at the beginning of the Perrys’ driveway. For a second he just stared at their house, his head turning to take in the others as well, and then I realized he was holding something in his hands.

A phone.

He started taking photographs of the houses with it.

Healy glanced at me, frowning, but I kept my eyes on the man. He’d stopped at a rut in the track, a dip adjacent to the third house belonging to Randolph Solomon and Emiline Wilson, and, as he did, sun briefly punctured the cloud and he became a little clearer. From where we were, it was hard to tell his age – forties maybe, or early fifties – but he was tall, well built, had dark grey hair, and was dressed in jeans and a suit jacket. He took more pictures, and then walked up the driveway to Randolph and Emiline’s front door to check if it was locked.

When he was done there, he returned to the track and started going further up, pausing outside the Daveys’ to take even more shots. Instinctively, Healy and I both backed away from the glass, conscious of being seen now, at least until we figured out what was going on – but, as we did, the movement registered with him. For the first time, he glanced at the farmhouse, his eyes quickly shifting from window to window, to the tractor and then the Land Rover. From where he was, he still wouldn’t have been able to see my Audi, but the fact that he’d clocked our movement, as slight as it was, instantly told me enough. Whoever this guy was, he was alert.

Then something else got his attention.

This time, he looked the other way, up towards the Black Gale sign – a fast, abrupt movement. Had he heard something? Or thought he had? He moved quickly, pocketing the phone and hurrying up the track, only slowing a few feet ahead of the entrance. From where we were, it was impossible to see the road in because the village was built on a downward slope, but there was no sound other than the faint whine of the wind; certainly no rumble of approaching cars. A few moments later, the man swivelled around, looking down the track, his gaze lingering on the farmhouse yet again. After that, he made a beeline for the side of the Perrys’.

He disappeared from view.

Leaving Healy at the window, I quickly moved through to the living room, which had a partial view of the three gardens. The man wasn’t in any of them. I watched for a moment, waiting for him to appear, but then Healy called me back, his voice deliberately low. By the time I returned to the kitchen, the man was out front again, trying the door on the Perrys’ house.