He waits expectantly as she draws out a kitchen chair to open the gun cupboard. She removes the twelve-bore.

‘Is that another rifle there, Mrs Ellison?’

‘A .22. It’s the shotgun you’re after, isn’t it?’

‘It is indeed,’ he says, pulling on a pair of leather gloves taken from his coat pocket.

Her hand trembles as she offers him the gun. She is horribly aware its evidence might put Jack’s head in a noose.

‘I’d like to keep it for a while, if you don’t mind,’ he says, taking it from her.

‘I need it … for the farm. Foxes.’

‘I’ll get it back to you as soon as I can. At least you have another rifle to use in the meantime.’

Her stomach heaves as she closes the cupboard door and climbs down from the chair.

‘Your husband mentioned he was busy inside when you heard the shot.’

‘Yes.’

‘Late to be working, isn’t it, eight o’clock?’

‘There’s always a lot to be done. We farmers don’t have the luxury of keeping civilised hours.’

‘Of course. What was your husband doing exactly?’

‘He was …’ Gwen swallows. ‘He’s … working on something.’

Again, that wolfish smile – as if he is leading her towards a trip wire, distracting her, so he can have the pleasure of seeing her fall. ‘What would that be?’

‘It’s a surprise,’ she replies faintly.

‘Well, I don’t want to spoil anything … but, perhaps you wouldn’t mind showing me where he was that evening?’

Gwen grips the back of the chair. She thinks of the tack room, the camp bed and the blackened window. Her mind races, as she wonders whether it is too late to construct a lie to help save Jack. But then she remembers how adamant he was about working on something these past few weeks. Praying fervently, she leads the Inspector from the house.

It has started to spit with rain, but she hardly registers it pricking her face or dampening her clothes, though the detective uses his free hand to hold both sides of his mackintosh together, while still carrying the shotgun.

Her heart is thumping wildly as she dips into the dimly lit stable block. She pauses before the tack room door as she wonders again if there is any way to avoid this, but the Inspector is close behind her.

‘Mrs Ellison?’ he prompts.

She lifts the latch and the hinges creak as she pushes the door wide. The camp bed is neatly made. Jack’s spare clothes hang over the back of the Bentwood chair. On the upturned apple crate is the saucer with his candle – little more than a stub now, trickles of molten wax solidified down its side. The room resonates with his presence. She cannot bring herself to intrude.

The Inspector, however, shows no such reticence as he passes her to stand inside.