I glanced around, wondering if we were being listened to. Everybody had their heads down. They were keen to see the back of Parker. He may have given plenty of money to the village but he was not really one of them. He read great big textbooks that he ordered from overseas and gave lectures at schools and village halls all over the neighbouring towns and villages. He liked the sound of his own voice, but more than anything else, he was difficult company. He didn’t like to talk about the football or what was in the newspapers or whether Big Jim Cotteril really had killed a bull with a shovel out at Cumwhinton. He wanted to hear about people. Their private lives. Their relationships. Were they happy? Did they regret their decisions? What did they want from the future? Talking to him was like a job interview and the men of the village found it uncomfortable.

A moment later the door banged. Parker was gone and I was alone with the handful of drinkers who had made the journey to Samson’s. The weather had kept the crowds away. Two men stood drinking at the bar and a fat man I recognized from the post office queue was seated at one of the square tables. He had a tube of glue unscrewed in front of him and was attempting to fix flights to a set of darts. He looked up as I approached the bar. Gave me a once-over. Decided I wasn’t more interesting than the task at hand.

‘Evening,’ said the man behind the bar. I found out later his name was Stubbs. He was tall and sixtyish, with a ruddy face and an assemblage of risen, gnarled warts across his neck and forehead, as if he was in the habit of resting his cheek against a toad. He seemed friendly enough. A different man to the last time I was in.

‘I was looking for Sergeant Chivers,’ I said, and to my shame, I think I tried to make my accent sound more like the locals. I jerked my head a little too, like Felicity, pointing with her chin.

‘Be in if he can,’ said Stubbs. ‘Roads are bloody awful.’ He winced at his use of bad language in front of a woman. ‘Apologies,’ he said. ‘What’ll it be?’