Peter waited as Arthur looked longingly towards Peter’s glass and the faint glow of warmth emanating from the drawing room. If Arthur came inside, he’d lend him the car, he’d say he made a mistake. But Arthur looked up behind Peter to the banisters and first floor landing, and frowned as if he’d seen something. ‘Love to. I really would. I can’t, though, Peter. Sorry.’ Immediately, he turned on his heel and disappeared into the dark of the drive.

Peter shut the door but didn’t move. He almost opened it back up and shouted to his friend to please come in for a drink, to force him. To say, Listen, old boy, I just remembered. There’s a secret stash of petrol. Take it! But the seconds ticked by and he was still at the door, listening. There was no sound. Arthur must have gone. As Peter’s shoulders relaxed, he thought he heard a noise outside. It was probably an animal searching for food. Again he heard the sound of something creaking. Gently, he turned the catch on the front door and inched it open. At first, he couldn’t see anything. Then he realised the door to the gun store was open. He was about to step out and shut it, when someone came out.

For a fraction of a second he thought it was a burglar. It was a figure in a greatcoat and he’d taken one of the shotguns and was now mounting a pushbike. But the way the figure moved was familiar and Peter knew it was Arthur before the man glanced back and his face was half lit by the light of the hall.

He opened his mouth. ‘Arthur?’ then, ‘Wait,’ a bit louder, but Arthur just seemed to shake his head. Then he rode off down the lane and disappeared into the darkness.

Peter stood still on the stone step with his drink in his hand in the yellow glow of the hallway as faint, wet snow fell around him. He was sick with indecision. Arthur was his old friend. But Peter had loved Jack, no matter what he had done. He suddenly remembered Skitmore telling him that Arthur’s gun had gone off on the partridge shoot last autumn and it had nearly got someone killed. He’d felt uneasy about it but it sounded too preposterous. But what if Arthur had wanted to scare Jack? Had hated him all this time? He’d taken a gun, he was acting distinctly rum. It was all coming together with a horrible inevitability. And if Arthur had really hurt Jack – it was unforgivable. He downed the whisky and breathed through his nose. Then he went back inside and picked up the telephone in the hallway and called the police station.