He led her down the field and through the gate. He’d get her bedded down before Pierre came, calm and quiet so fear didn’t taint her meat. Pierre wasn’t due for an hour or so, and the woman would be gone by then. And even if she wasn’t, Pierre liked his drop of Jameson before he did his business, as well as after, and the old man always had a nip with him, so she had time to walk to St Brélade’s and back for all he knew.

It was inconvenient of the woman to leave her vehicle here, as if it was a public car park. He led Betsy past her car, into the barn. He’d prepared her stall, the single chute at the end with the head gate that he used to keep a cow steady for impregnating. Nothing was done nature’s way anymore and though it was a messy job, sticking your arm up the animal’s backside and feeling around inside, he had to admit it had more chances of success than running a randy bull with an unwilling cow. He’d secure Betsy later, when Pierre was here. For now, she had the freedom of her stall, with fresh hay to eat and water to drink, clean straw to bed on and the familiar smells and sounds of home.

She’d be content there. Betsy had served him well, and hadn’t he been kind to her? He owed her this. He’d learned how to slaughter from his father, and butcher the beasts. He put up a new salt block. She walked towards it and curled her tongue around its edge, licks rough as a file, a line of drool falling from her mouth.

‘Enjoy it, Betsy,’ he said. ‘Enjoy.’

He walked back out and over to the car. A Toyota. It was hired, he could tell by the number plate. He tried the driver’s door. It opened. Inside was empty and clean, freshly valeted. If she had a bag, she’d taken it with her. He leaned over and opened the glove compartment. A duster. A log. He pulled it out. Avis, service history. If she didn’t come back soon, he’d give them a ring, tell them it was causing an obstruction.

He slammed the door shut and set off towards the cliff. There was still some time before Pierre was due. She was most likely on the beach. He’d ask her to move her car somewhere else.

Most of the path had eroded into scree, slippery unless you knew how to walk it. Joe took firm, even steps, flat onto the sole of his boot, like he had done as an altar boy on the Saints’ Road, up the Brandon Mountain, Holy Mary Mother of God. The voyagers’ saint was Brendan, a Kerry man.