‘This place is no better than the abattoir,’ said Fry.

‘Well, they’re serving a similar purpose.’

‘If you say so.’

Fry lowered the binoculars. The hunt was gathering again for the second time this week. Something called a lawn meet, she was told. It sounded ridiculous, and created images in her mind of people playing croquet on horseback.

‘Let’s get this straight,’ said Cooper. ‘The Eden Valley Hunt aren’t doing anything illegal. Neither are the owners of the abattoir where horses are slaughtered. So anyone who tries to interfere with their legal activities by obstruction or intimidation is committing a crime, and is liable to be arrested. Right, Diane?’

Fry could feel her jaw tighten. Strange, but she’d thought this would be a safe subject, a way of keeping Cooper off more personal topics. So why was it that he seemed able to make any subject unsettling?

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘We could never condone vigilantism, by animal rights activists or anyone else.’

‘I’m glad about that.’

‘But it’s still disgusting.’

Cooper looked at her, but she couldn’t meet his eye.

‘Everything ends the same way, Diane,’ he said. ‘Animals don’t live for ever. Farm livestock are there for a purpose.’

Everything ends the same way. She supposed that was right – for humans, as well as animals. It was just a question of how much pain you had to go through first.

Cooper suddenly seemed to lose interest in the direction of the conversation. He pointed beyond the kennels.

‘See down there, on the road?’ he said. ‘About a hundred yards short of the gate to the kennel drive.’

‘Yes. There’s an old Bedford van parked up on the verge.’

‘That’s the sabs’ van. They’re on kennel watch. They’re waiting for the hounds to leave, so they can follow them to this morning’s meet. Sometimes, if the hunt expects to be sabbed, they try to change the location at the last minute from the one listed on the meet card.’

‘If the van is there, that means the animal rights activists are due back in the area today.’

‘Right,’ said Cooper. ‘Well, it’s the last hunt of the season. They’ll want to go out on a high note.’

‘Speaking of which,’ said Fry, ‘I’d really like to follow up the hunt saboteurs’ claim to have heard the kill call before the hunt on Tuesday morning.’

‘You think the kill call was real, Diane?’

‘Yes,’ said Fry. ‘I believe in the kill call.’

THEY WENT BACK to the car, and Cooper drove up the road two miles from the kennels to where the hunt was gathering at the home of a member.

Cooper surveyed a scene that he had once thought would be a vanishing tradition, no more than a memory in the British countryside. Everyone was in correct hunting dress this morning, of course – gentlemen in three-button red coats with brass buttons, white breeches, and top boots. The traditional bowlers and top hats had disappeared now, though, in favour of protective hunting caps to meet safety standards.