‘What do you use an air rifle for? No, don’t tell me – let me guess. You use it for shooting squirrels.’

‘Also crows, rooks and magpies, which steal the eggs of song birds. They’re all classed as pests, so it’s lawful to shoot them on private property.’

‘I can understand that. But what’s the problem with squirrels?’

‘The invasion of grey squirrels has driven our native reds into remote sanctuaries, protected forests in Wales or Scotland. Now all they can do is cling on in dwindling numbers, powerless against an alien species.’ Ridgeway took a step towards her and lowered his voice. ‘Our kind of people are just like those red squirrels. We’re being driven out by the vermin.’

‘I think I’m finished here,’ said Fry.

As she was shown out, she wondered why the Ridgeways had bothered joining Neighbourhood Watch if they knew nothing about their neighbours and couldn’t even see the adjoining properties. But she supposed there was only one reason, from their point of view – they thought it would provide protection for themselves.

In the dining room, Martin Ridgeway tapped the barometer, as if out of habit. It appeared to be some kind of ritual before he opened the door of his barn conversion.

Fry looked over his shoulder. One hand pointed at ‘Stormy’ and the other at ‘Change’.

‘Is that good or bad?’ she said.

Ridgeway scowled. ‘The same as bloody usual.’

Rose Shepherd’s other neighbours were called Birtland. Cooper found their address to be a bungalow, with a long curving drive leading off Pinfold Lane. The property was only a few decades old, but built after the introduction of national park planning regulations. There were no red brick terraces and plaster porticos here, no incongruities like those allowed in some of the forties and fifties developments. This place was stone clad and mullioned, designed to blend in with its surroundings.

Even so, Cooper thought he would never get used to some of these new properties. They gave the impression that someone had sliced off a piece of landscape with a bulldozer and flattened an area big enough to plonk down a bungalow. There seemed to be no regard for the natural contours of the land.

‘Mrs Birtland?’

‘Yes?’ The grey-haired woman who answered his knock peered cautiously past a security chain.

He showed his ID. ‘DC Cooper, Edendale CID.’

‘Is it about the murder?’

‘Oh, I see someone’s been talking. Was it the officer who called earlier?’

‘No, but word gets around.’

Cooper smiled. He was pleased to hear that, for once. ‘May I come in? You can check my ID, if you want.’

‘No, that’s all right.’

She took the chain off and let him into the bungalow.

‘Edward and Frances, is that right?’

‘I’m Frances, Edward is my husband.’

‘And is Mr Birtland in?’

‘Yes, Ted’s in the back. Would you like a cup of tea, Mr Cooper?’