James quickly checked to see what was beyond the back door. There was a small yard containing a weather-beaten shed, an old rusty tractor and several dustbins. It was enclosed by a dry-stone wall with a gate that provided access to a field beyond the lane they’d driven down. Freshly fallen snow covered the ground and obliterated any potential clues that might otherwise have been visible.

James stepped back inside the house where Coppell was waiting to draw his attention to four framed photographs displayed on a sideboard next to the stairs.

‘These will probably be of use to you, Inspector,’ he said.

James picked up each photo with a gloved hand. The first showed Robert and Mary Bateman on their wedding day. They were standing outside St John’s Church in Kirkby Abbey. She was slim and pretty in her white dress, her long brown hair hanging loose about her shoulders. He was a good six inches taller and wearing a smart, grey suit, his dark hair slicked neatly back from his forehead.

The second photo showed Mary sitting up in a hospital bed shortly after giving birth. She looked radiant and happy as she smiled down at their new baby, Charlotte.

The third photo looked as though it had been taken only a few years ago. All three of them were posed together in front of the farmhouse. By then Mary’s hair had turned grey and the dress she was wearing looked far too tight for her. Charlotte had blossomed into an attractive young girl with a face that was sharp and thin, and a figure that fit snugly into tight jeans and a skimpy top. Robert was the only one not smiling. He was wearing jeans and a loose-fitting shirt, and holding a hand above his eyes to shield them from the sunlight, the shadow his hand cast making it difficult for James to distinguish his features.

In the fourth photograph Robert Bateman was standing alone in a field wearing a tweed shooting jacket, matching cap and high leather boots – his features clear this time. In one hand he was holding a dead pheasant and in the other a shotgun that appeared to be identical to the one that now lay across his body.

James recognised him immediately and recalled that he had indeed met the man. It was many months ago in one of the village pubs. The topic of conversation between the gathered group was how many Cumbrian farmers were struggling to survive, and how some were being pushed to the emotional and financial brink. A few were even becoming suicidal because of the pressures they faced from plummeting prices, the increasing costs of housing livestock and the damage caused by years of extreme weather. Mr Bateman had made it known that he was among those who might not be able to keep his business afloat for much longer.