He felt leaden and frustrated, and he hoped that the cold, fresh air would help to clear his head. It had started snowing again, fat white flakes drifting lazily down. James wiped them from his face and shook them out of his hair.

At any other time he would have found this weather to be exhilarating, even exciting. But right now he was too preoccupied to embrace it.

This was the most challenging case that had come his way since the move to Cumbria. Half the problem was not knowing if the murder was linked to the anonymous threats in the Christmas cards. And it didn’t help that it was all so very personal.

The card and the dead partridge had been delivered to James. He had also spoken to Charlie Jenkins only hours before he was stabbed to death. And one of the suspects was a man who his own wife had once been infatuated with.

As if that wasn’t enough to have playing on his mind, there was also the spectre of Andrew Sullivan waiting in the background. It wouldn’t have been so bad if he knew where the bastard was, but he had apparently buggered off on a Christmas break.

James didn’t like to admit, even to himself, that he was feeling overwhelmed by what seemed like a sudden avalanche of problems and issues. It was a perfect storm and he was smack bang in the middle of it with no idea how rough it was going to get.

He experienced a sudden yearning to be back in The Smoke where he had never felt out of his depth or out of his comfort zone. Here in Cumbria it was like living and working in a fishbowl, with his every move being scrutinised and judged.

He knew that if he fucked up this case there would be consequences for both himself and for Annie.

As soon as James arrived home, he knew that something was wrong. Annie opened the front door just as he was about to slip his key into the lock, her eyes puffy from crying and her complexion a sickly hue.

‘I was about to call to see what time you’d be back,’ she said. ‘I gather from the news that you still don’t know who did it.’

James closed the door behind him, pulled off his coat, gloves and scarf, then kissed her on the forehead.

‘I’ll update you over a glass of wine,’ he said. ‘And you can tell me what’s up with you. I can’t believe you’ve been shedding tears over Charlie Jenkins.’

‘This is not about him,’ she said, as she moved into the kitchen. ‘It’s Bill. I had to go and pick him up after he crashed his bloody car.’

‘Blimey, Annie. Is he okay?’

‘He wasn’t hurt, luckily, but he could have been. The car skidded on ice and went over an embankment. If it hadn’t struck a tree it would have landed in a river.’

‘Where is he now?’