Annie was now employed full time as a teacher at Kirkby Abbey’s primary school, which had been given a reprieve from closure for at least a couple of years. The job suited her well and the school was only a short walk from their cottage on the edge of the village.

‘There’s plenty to keep me occupied,’ Annie said. ‘For one thing, I want to start thinking seriously about what to do with the baby’s room. It’s time we stripped off the old wallpaper and put some thought into what it will look like. What colour we paint it will have to wait until we know if it’s a boy or girl, but I can order the cot now along with some other stuff.’

James couldn’t help but smile. For years they had dreamt of having a baby but for a reason that had never been determined hadn’t been able to. Despondency had turned to despair and it even got to the point where they began discussing adoption. But then two months ago, at the age of thirty-six, Annie discovered that she was pregnant at last, and now they were looking forward to welcoming their offspring into the world in the middle of next summer.

‘I’d better get a move on,’ James said, kissing his wife’s forehead. ‘Shall I make you a cup of tea after I’ve showered?’

‘No, I’ll make you one along with some breakfast. If I stay here, I’ll probably fall back to sleep and I don’t want to.’

James heaved himself out of bed and stretched, curving his spine as he padded across the room to the window. He pulled back the curtain and looked out on the new day.

It had been another white Christmas in Cumbria, and the snow still covered their short driveway and the road in front of the house, along with the fields he could see beyond the village. Morning light was struggling through murky clouds and trees swayed in the wind and snatched at the sky.

It was a far cry from the view they used to have from their previous home in London, which they were now renting out. There all they could see were brick walls, rooftops and endless queues of traffic.

They’d made the move to Cumbria fourteen months ago, and after spending twenty years as a detective in the Met, it took James a while to adjust to what was a much quieter life. As much as he missed his family – who were scattered across North London – he now wouldn’t swap the rolling hills and lakes for anything. And there was no doubt in his mind that the land of Wordsworth and Beatrix Potter was a much better place to raise a child than the crime-infested capital.

He still found it hard to believe that he had already spent two Christmases here.