Julie Robinson was behind the old sergeant’s desk with a cup of coffee. She ran the Post Office with her husband Phil, but mucked in at times like this as an impromptu dispatcher and point of contact. “Oh. Hi, Ellie.”

“You heard about Tony Harper?”

“Mm.” Julie sighed. “Poor lad.”

“He was in the Bell last night, so I’m gonna go get a statement off the Famuyiwas. After that I’m doing the death knock at Barrowman Farm.”

“God.” Julie grimaced. “Rather you than me.”

“Yeah.”

Serious crime was rare around Barsall; the standard gear of pepper spray, extendable baton and handcuffs usually left Ellie feeling over-equipped, but since those rare serious crimes were usually the Harpers’ work, not today. She picked up a two extra pairs of cuffs, just in case. Until earlier this year, they’d had a couple of tasers in storage, but Matlock had taken them back. More was the pity, right now.

On her way back through the village, she stopped at the Co-Op again to pick up two bottles of Merlot. A promise was a promise, and she’d need a drink later anyway. She grabbed a cold pasty too, and ate it as she drove.

Ellie overtook Tom, who was proceeding at his usual snail’s pace, and followed the hill road past Wakeman Farm and along Spear Bank, to the North Road that ran along the foot of Wakeman’s Edge.

The hills and passes the North Road led through were vulnerable to the winter storms, often cutting Barsall off from the outside world. One of the reasons for the strong sense of community in the village – which was one reason Ellie liked it – was that you had little choice but to look to one another to survive. According to the local vicar, Madeleine Lowe, even that hadn’t always been enough, as one particularly prolonged and harsh winter – the “Bad Winter”, as she always called it, the capital letters always clearly audible – had left the village almost depopulated back in the Middle Ages, with only a handful of survivors left by the spring.

Still, this section of the North Road, at least, was still clear. Even in better weather than this, though, it could seem long and unfriendly, and the prospect of breaking your journey for a pint or pub lunch was always appealing, especially if you were stopping to refill your tank anyway. The Bell dated back to the seventeenth century, but the landlords had moved with the times, hence the petrol station next door.

The Famuyiwas had bought the roadside inn from the previous owners five years ago and kept it going, but the reliance on passing trade meant they couldn’t afford to be choosy about their clientele, especially not in winter. Which was why it had been Tony Harper’s usual watering-hole.