‘Morning, Ron. Coffee’s up.’

‘Excellent. And who’s this?’ Ron said, spying Toby and then immediately adding, ‘Don’t tell me, you’re the writer chappy McCreedy’s been all of a-flutter about at the waterhole.’

They shook hands, Ron’s grip like a hydraulic clamp. ‘That’s right. It sounds rather as if everyone in the village knows me, whereas I don’t know anyone at all.’

Ron slapped Toby hard on the arm with his free hand. ‘Welcome to Newton Dunbar, lad, where nothing happens and nothing is the talk of the town.’

‘What sort of writer are you then?’ MacDonald asked.

‘I’m a journalist. Or at least, I was,’ Toby clarified, as Ron let go of him and went to get himself coffee. The dog had already settled itself in front of the wood burner behind the counter, sprawled in an untidy semi-circle as close as it could get to the warmth. ‘I’m supposed to be writing my life story, such as it is. Haven’t figured out quite how to do that yet. I thought coming somewhere quiet might help.’

Cullen emitted a devilish cackle. ‘Hear that, Rachel? We’re not to be famous after all! She was worried you were writing about this place.’

‘I wasn’t worried,’ said the woman called Rachel. She was checking emails on a laptop that Toby thought might actually be steam-powered. ‘But as usual in this place, working out the actual truth of a situation is like trying to knit with spaghetti.’ She looked up at Toby with a smile. ‘There are chairs upstairs, if you need somewhere to sit and think. Or work, even.’

‘Thank you. There’s a desk at the cottage, but I’ve spent most of my life writing on my lap or in the backs of moving vehicles. I thought the quiet would help me concentrate, but actually I’m not sure it’ll be all that conducive.’

Her gaze flicked to his leg again, as if trying to put two and two together and unwilling to ask for the answer.

‘Time is wasting!’ Ron cried, throwing himself into the armchair opposite Cullen. ‘I’ve got an evil empire to defeat and the morning is drawing on!’

Rachel met Toby’s eye. ‘Stick around, Mr Hollingwood,’ she said, with deadpan dryness. ‘We can probably supply enough noise and chaos to compensate.’

Two

Edie Strang glanced out of her workshop window and saw a goat knee-deep in her perennials. With a cry she dropped the print she’d been holding and dashed for the door.

‘Oi!’ she yelled, lurching out into the rain.

The goat ignored her, chewing happily on the Orange Princess.

Edie grabbed a watering can from her potting bench and advanced. ‘Get out of it, you little hooligan!’ She banged on the base of the can with her fist, the noise booming over the sound of hard rain bouncing from the edges of her stoneware pots. The goat startled, kicking its heels and dancing backwards across Edie’s neat oblong of lawn.

‘Don’t you dare,’ she hissed, as it turned, its hooves click-clacking on the winding path of old stone slabs that divided up the modest space between flowers and vegetables. ‘You even look at my cavolo nero and I’ll—’ She banged the watering can again, harder this time, and the goat jumped in the air on the spot, like a spring suddenly released from pressure.