Out on the Height the sky was dark, and the only sounds were the muffled wind and the hiss of static from his radio: still no signal, even out here. Wasn’t quite dusk yet, but you wouldn’t have known it; the clouds and snowfall had cut off the last of the failing light. The wind had to be gale force by now, and the snow was coming down thick and heavy, piling up against the windscreen faster than the wipers could clear it away.

Ellie’d been right about Matlock; even the thought of driving back to Barsall made Tom’s palms sweat and trying to get to Barrowman Farm would’ve been a kamikaze job if they’d left it this long, never mind anywhere else.

They’d got the kids out of there, that was the important thing. Ellie and the others. One hole in her fur hat, and that was all the damage, although Bert Annable’d taken a pot at the front of the farmhouse, so Christ knew what would happen when the snows cleared and the Harpers went crying to any ambulance-chaser who’d give them the time of day.

Well, he’d officially been home sick and the raid was all Ellie’s doing – the glory and the grief, all in one. Yet here he was, out on the Height with a radio that didn’t work – he’d have more luck with a flaming carrier pigeon – doing his bit.

Probably time he jacked it in, really. He’d turned fifty-five, year before last, and so was eligible for his pension. Reduced benefits if he retired now, but better to do that and still have your health, wasn’t it?

Barsall had always been a quiet beat. A simple life. Apart from the Harpers. But now they were kicking things up a gear. Nearly had a Wild West shoot-out there today. Maybe Paul Harper was cooking meth – turned people mental, that stuff, didn’t it? Place was going to end up like America, nutters with machine guns everywhere you looked. No thank you, not for him. Retire and stay out of it with Thelma. Live a quiet life that way, if he still could – if any bugger still could now.