I stood there listening for a moment, my eyes adjusting to the light, slowing my breath, and then I quietly eased the door shut.

On the table there was an empty teacup, a copy of the local newspaper and a .410 shotgun.

It was a small cottage. A servant’s quarters given a quick coat of rural comfort. To the left was the bedroom and the bathroom, both doors shut. To the right the small living area ran into an L-shaped kitchen only large enough for one person at a time.

I stood there, seeing in the darkness now, but not knowing what I was looking for until I glimpsed it under the sink.

I moved quickly to the little kitchen, crouched down and pulled the door all the way open. An ancient leather bag was sitting with the bleach and disinfectant and insecticide. Its dark brown cowhide was worn and cracked, the brass hardware and locks blackened with rust.

But somehow you knew it was still being used.

As something very small scuttled away in the skirting board, I reached in and took out the worn-leather Gladstone bag.

A Murder Bag.

I turned to carry the bag back to the living space and there he was, old Len Zukov, sitting at the table with the .410 shotgun in his arthritic hands.

I held up the bag for his inspection, as if he had asked me to retrieve it.

‘Your bag, Len?’

He sniffed. ‘Of course.’

I set it on the table, saying nothing.

‘You don’t believe me,’ he said, the accent forever caught somewhere between rural England and his Russian homeland. ‘You never believe a word I say, do you?’

I watched his hands on the .410. Despite his condition the shotgun rested easily in his strong arms and those locked, arthritic fists. He was more comfortable than I had ever seen him. And I looked towards the door, wondering if the .410 was even loaded, and how much mobility he needed in his fingers to pull the trigger.

Not much, I thought. The .410 is the lightest shotgun, often used for teaching children how to shoot.

‘Sit down now,’ he said, interrupting my calculations.

‘My colleagues will be here soon,’ I said, hearing the doubt in my voice.

He liked that. ‘Perhaps not soon enough,’ he said. ‘I told you to sit down.’

I remained standing.

‘You didn’t come forward to claim the body,’ I said. ‘Anya’s body, Len. Anya Bauer. We know it was her remains in the grave with the dogs. No doubt about it. We obtained dental records from Germany. What stopped you coming forward and claiming the body? What were you afraid of? You knew her, Len.’

‘Did you ever see what a shotgun does to a man’s face?’ he said.

I joined him at the table. There were only two chairs. He wasn’t one for doing a lot of socialising.