At first they stepped out into an impenetrable and disorientating blackness. Benton’s torch, its beam strong as a miniature headlight, transformed the paving stones and the path into disconcerting hazards and distorted the shape of bushes and trees. As Kate’s eyes became accustomed to the night, one by one the stars became visible against the curdle of black and grey clouds through which a half-moon gracefully slipped and reappeared, bleaching the narrow road and making the darkness mysteriously iridescent. They walked without speaking, their shoes sounding hobnailed on the tarmac, like resolute and threatening invaders, alien creatures disturbing the peace of the night. Except, Kate thought, that it wasn’t peace. Even in the stillness she could hear the faint shuffles in the grasses and from time to time a distant, almost human cry. The inexorable succession of kill and be killed was being played out under cover of darkness. Rhoda Gradwyn wasn’t the only living creature that had died on that Friday night.

Some fifty yards on, they passed the Westhalls’ cottage, with one light in an upstairs window and two shining from the windows of the ground floor. Within yards to the left was the parking space, the black shed and, beyond, a glimpse of the Cheverell circle, the stones no more than half-imagined shapes until the clouds parted under the moon and they stood, pale and insubstantial, seeming to float, moon-bleached, above the black unfriendly fields.

And now they were at the Old Police Cottage, with its light shining from the two ground-floor windows. As they approached, Dalgliesh opened the door, looking for a second unfamiliar in slacks, a checked open-necked shirt and pullover. There was a wood fire burning, scenting the air, and a faint savoury aroma. Dalgliesh had pulled three comfortable low chairs before the fire with an oak coffee table between them. On it stood an open bottle of red wine, three glasses and a plan of the Manor. Kate felt an uplifting of her heart. This routine at the end of the day was like coming home. When the time came to accept promotion with the inevitable change of job, these were the moments she would miss. The talk would be of death and murder, sometimes in its most horrific form, but in memory these sessions at the end of the day would hold the warmth and security, the sense of being valued, which in childhood she had never known. There was a desk before the window holding Dalgliesh’s laptop, a telephone and a thick file of papers beside it; a bulging briefcase was propped against the table leg. He had brought some of his other work with him. She thought, He looks tired. It isn’t good enough, he’s been overworking for weeks, and felt a surge of an emotion which she knew she could never express.