There were shots of The White Hart, and a photo of Charlie with his wife, then several residents gave sound bites in which they expressed shock and revulsion.

Among them was Father Silver, who was interviewed in front of his church. He described Charlie as a well-liked member of the community who would be greatly missed.

‘Our prayers are with his wife and the rest of his family who are obviously devastated,’ he said. ‘Nothing like this has ever happened in our village and tomorrow I intend to hold a special service here to honour Charlie’s memory.’

It came as a huge relief to James that the priest didn’t mention the card he’d received with the message about the post-Christmas funerals.

‘Let’s open another bottle of wine,’ Annie said when the report ended. ‘I’m not ready to go upstairs yet and a few more glasses might help me to drop off.’

‘Sounds good to me,’ James replied. ‘But I’ll just have the one because I’m sure that tomorrow is going to be another hellish day and I’ll need to have a clear head.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

I’m in bed but I’m not asleep. I’m lying in the dark listening to the noises the house is making as it’s battered by the harsh wind.

But it wasn’t the bumps and creaks and rattling of the windows that woke me up about half an hour ago. It was the dream. The one that takes me back to the night I killed someone. It happened a long time ago but the memory continues to blight my life.

Only one person knows what I did and I’m sure that my secret is safe with him. When we see each other in the village he never alludes to it or looks at me in a way that reminds me what a terrible person I am.

He probably thinks that the guilt that weighs me down is punishment enough for what I did. But, of course, it isn’t. I ended a young woman’s life and got away with it. Her family was denied justice. All because I was a coward and feared going to prison.

I sometimes contemplate turning myself into the police in the hope that it will bring closure to the family and end my own suffering. But I don’t do it because I fear I won’t survive if I’m sent to jail.

The sound of breaking glass makes me jump.

It came from downstairs and my first thought is that an object whipped up by the wind has smashed through a window. That’s because it happened once before, not so long ago, and I went down to find a large tree branch on the living room floor and glass everywhere.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not apprehensive as I climb out of bed and slip on my dressing gown. I can’t help wondering if it might not be an accident. What if someone has deliberately broken a window in order to scare me or gain access to my house? What if it’s the person who murdered Charlie Jenkins last night? Or someone who knows about the blood on my own hands and has come to seek revenge?