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.

Well, he’d talk it over with the Mrs, whenever this was over with. For now, though, he was still a copper. Maybe not much of one – oh, he knew what Ellie thought of him, what everyone did, that he was just a time-server, not sticking his neck out any further than he could help – and they might be right, but this was still his job and he wasn’t a shirker. He’d been out on the moors enough times, hadn’t he, hunting lost hikers in weather like this? Helping bring them safely home, or retrieving their frozen corpses. And how many times had he done that last one? Every bloody winter, some poor sod ended up like that. Not even hikers all the time: even locals could come a cropper, like Tony Harper. After a while it got to you, all the death. Ate into you. Even so he wasn’t a shirker, or a coward. He’d taken the Queen’s shilling, signed on the dotted line. A contract. A bargain. An oath. Call it what you like.

So he’d do his part. Keep on a little longer, then head back into Barsall. See how Ellie wanted to play it then.