Into the narrow beam of her torch, the snow fell in thick flakes into the darkness. Although Verity knew the route to the cabin as if it was imprinted on her hand, the night and the snow made it foreign and strange, and she was thankful she had remembered the torch. But beyond that, she wasn’t at all sure she knew what she was doing. She’d taken Gypsy and ridden the usual way along the Holkham Road, past the entrance to Harborough Hall and towards the little path that led to the cabin. She left the poor, cold horse at the same place she used to leave him, by the clump of deformed hawthorns. He had whinnied and stamped in agitation, and she patted his muzzle, telling him she’d be back soon.

The door was iced shut again but it wasn’t hard to prise it open. It was old and rotten with the damp from sea spray. It was no warmer inside the cabin than outside except there was some protection from the wind coming off the sea and a sudden quiet. Although it was tempting to light a candle or the little stove, she knew she could not. She switched off the torch and used her mittened hands to feel her way down the passage. She had heard Arthur talking to Peter. She would know Arthur’s voice anywhere and the very fact of his turning up unannounced on a snowy, winter night was odd. And then asking for the car – the Arthur she knew was too proud to do that. She’d watched from her bedroom window as he’d left on his bike, then, in increasing confusion, watched as he’d dumped the bike and set out on foot across the front fields towards the marsh. She remembered what he’d said about the key he had and she’d felt an urgent panic to get the briefcase, because wasn’t that what he was after? He hated Jack and wanted to destroy the memory of him. There was no point following him across the marsh. It was faster as the crow flies but she had Gyps.

Now in the cabin, she imagined Arthur here before her, but he had no idea where it was. There was no sound but the scurrying of mice. All of this was tumbling through her mind but hardly consciously as she fumbled through the dark passage to the bedroom. In the wardrobe, the black briefcase was where she had left it. She took off her mittens and her hands felt its smooth, cool leather as she pulled it down from the top shelf. It wasn’t heavy and she wondered if she’d got it wrong, that there was nothing in it after all. But why would anyone lock an empty briefcase?