‘Honestly, those two are like brother and sister, bickering all the time.’ Meredith pursed her lips.

‘From opposite sides of the tracks,’ observed Alan. ‘They don’t come much posher than Fliss, and young Jason has a rough side to him – although I think under the bravado he’s a nice kid.’

‘They seem to enjoy rubbing each other up the wrong way, that’s for sure. But hopefully they’ll enjoy a change of scenery and the pub sounds just the thing.’

Jason, with that unerring ability young men had when it came to beer, had sussed out the most direct route to the pub via a footpath from the back of the farmhouse that led up over the hill and down to the pub. Hannah followed, enjoying not being in charge or having to make any decisions. Following the herd, every now and then, was rather relaxing, especially on a warm summer’s evening, crossing the green hillside with a view of the sea and the mountains away over on the horizon. Birds chattered in warning from the trees as they set across the field to reach the path, down which they walked in twos alongside one of the dry-stone walls.

‘Oh fuck me! What is that smell?’ asked Jason, suddenly halting and putting an arm out to pull Alan up short.

‘That’s awful,’ wailed Fliss, pulling the scarf around her neck up over her nose.

The stench was so strong that Hannah’s eyes watered.

On the other side of the wall was a huge pile of manure running parallel to the wall for almost the whole length of the field.

‘Ugh.’ Izzy pulled an I’m-about-to-be-sick face as Hannah blinked rapidly.

‘That’s gross,’ said Jason, pulling his sweatshirt up over half of his face. ‘Quick. Let’s get past this stinking pile of shit. Why would you leave it there?’

None of them answered; they were all too busy pinching their noses and hurrying past the offending piles of manure. For a moment Hannah wondered if this was more of Moss Murphy’s doing. It seemed like exactly the sort of thing a troublemaker would do.

‘And that’s why I don’t live in the country,’ said Jason, as they made the final descent down the path.

There was no missing the pub that nestled at the side of the road just along from the track they’d come down. Its walls were sunshine yellow with a pair of toucans rather incongruously painted on either side of the door.

‘The Guinness toucan,’ exclaimed Alan. ‘There’s an Irish pub in Soho called The Toucan.’

‘What?’

‘Iconic advertising from the 1930s which has survived. Incredible.’

‘I can’t see what on earth a toucan has to do with Irish beer,’ sniffed Fliss as they all trooped into the pub.