He followed the policeman as he waded along the edge of the pine trees. They were exposed, out here, the ruined fields and marsh in front of them. This place of sanctuary, dripping with memories, had been desecrated forever. They moved further away from Pinewoods and Beach Road, past the bottom fields of Howe Farm, whose dark presence he felt rather than saw, as only the tops of the chimneys were visible. He imagined Verity watching him from the house, though there were no windows in sight. They were almost at the end of the pine trees where the trees stopped and there was only open saltmarsh and winding creeks to the sea. He had an uncomfortable feeling of being watched, but there was no one there in this bleak wilderness. They had been looking for a long time now. The meagre light was fading and he thought they would have to turn back. Surely they hadn’t come this far in the boat? He began to feel a dangerous hope that they wouldn’t find Jack’s body, that the policeman was wrong. The body had drifted after all.

‘Oh, blimey.’ Blowers was somehow ahead of him, close to the trees. For a second Arthur didn’t move. He kept staring at the swirl of muddy water below him, eddying around his boots. He heard the tone in Blowers’ voice and knew what it was. He thought that if only he could stay staring at the water and not ever look up, he could keep the sight out of his head. But that was impossible and he lifted his gaze to where Blowers was looking. At first, he saw nothing but the constable’s black cape and preposterous helmet.

‘Stay back, if you don’t mind, sir,’ said Blowers in a newly officious voice.

Again, he considered how he could turn and flee and never see what Blowers had seen. And again, he moved towards the policeman and then he saw.

It was a strange sight at first: not a branch but an arm dangling down from the tree. In the shadows of the wood, with only a sickly light from the pregnant snow clouds, he could only see the outline of an arm and a hand attached, white against the black of the tree. An arm. A tree. Perhaps it was not Jack after all. Perhaps it was another man. But then he saw the body too, the head drooping down behind the arm, the legs hanging above. The hair was copper red. And on the ghastly, greenish, bloated face a dark, purple mark blooming on the forehead. He had moved past Blowers who tried to stop him and he shook him off – ‘Sir!’ His legs had taken him towards the body, drawn to it. The policeman shone his torch on the body and something glinted bright.