Wanting more, but Hirsch didn’t oblige. The clack of cutlery in the silence, the soft whine of an overhead fan, a truck trundling through the town. Then Joyce said, ‘How is Mrs Street? I was hoping she might have accompanied you this evening. She’d have been very welcome.’

It was the most she had ever said to Hirsch. And he appreciated the sentiment, even as he shuddered to picture Wendy’s take on a meal in this house. Gazing at Joyce Gwynne curiously, he saw that she was meeting his gaze. She seemed to be saying the evening might have been different if she’d had any say in it.

‘Wendy’s good, thanks,’ he said warmly. ‘She and Katie are away for a few days, extended family Christmas.’

‘Too bad you have to work,’ she went on.

‘Well, it’s the nature of the beast.’

Martin followed their exchange as if he couldn’t believe its triteness. ‘Let’s repair to the sitting room, Paul. I have something to show you.’

It was a signal for Joyce to clear the table. She remained in the kitchen, from where Hirsch sensed a tentative scraping of plates and running of taps, while Martin ushered him to one end of a pneumatic tan leather sofa and seated himself at the other end. An iPad materialised in his lap.

‘Are you on Facebook?’

Hirsch shook his head.

‘I’d have thought it a useful crime-fighting tool. Never mind, Mother and I are on it, and there’s also a Tiverton page you might be interested in.’

He scooted closer to Hirsch, angling the screen. Hirsch peered unwillingly.

‘This is what Nan posted,’ Martin said, scrolling, pausing at a photo. A dead pony in the dirt, outstretched neck, blood. ‘She says: Whoever did this has hit at my livelihood. I’ll have to work on the surviving ponies for months now, they’re so skittish. It’s mindless, shameful brutality. No respect for harmless creatures who share the world with us. But what goes around, comes around, and the thugs who did this will get caught.’

‘She’s right,’ Hirsch said, feeling inadequate.

Martin ignored him. ‘Look at the responses. Whoever did this was most probably bored, selfish and stupid…I can’t believe it could happen around here…Someone’s going to start bragging and it will all come out.’

‘Certainly hope so,’ Hirsch said.

‘But that’s not the main thing, Paul. I found this on YouTube.’

And there, after the ad-skip, was Hirsch. A wobbly video clip of him struggling with Denise Rennie outside Ed Tennant’s shop. Denise looking down in astonishment at Hirsch’s service pistol in her hand. Denise dropping the pistol.

‘I won’t make you look at the comments, Paul, I’m not a cruel man. But forewarned, as they say, is forearmed.’

13

13

CHRISTMAS EVE, 6 A.M.