He is careful to fasten the door behind him. He does not want Gwen following him in. The torchlight pools at his feet; he is in no rush – he knows what awaits him. He has seen too many sights like it over the past six years. He thought he was done with all that.

He advances carefully, his eyes scanning for what he cannot yet see. He does not look up at the rafters. He knows enough not to. The torch beam catches the side of the bale stack, tucked into the far corner. They have been arranged in decreasing steps, and Ted is slumped on the bottom row. The sawn-off shotgun has fallen from his hands. The bale his head rests against is slickly scarlet. Jack draws in a deep breath.

‘Oh, Ted.’

He forces himself forward. The metallic smell sticks at the back of his throat as he crouches down beside the farmer’s body. On the bale next to him is a brown envelope with TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN written across its front. Jack drags his hand across his face. As it slides away, he notices a folded piece of white paper caught in the curled palm of Ted’s left hand. His own name is written on the front.

Ted’s fingers, cold but not yet stiff, yield easily as he gently removes it. He pauses for a moment, then opens the note.

Look after her.

He looks up at the rafters, swallowing hard to keep at bay the sudden swell of emotion that threatens to undo him.

‘I will,’ he promises in a roughened voice.

Tucking the paper into his trouser pocket, he pushes himself up to standing. He hears Gwen calling him from outside.

‘Thank you, Ted,’ he whispers.

Hearing Gwen’s shouts coming closer, he runs out to intercept her.

They wait before the barn, Jack’s jacket draped around Gwen’s shoulders. He has tried to persuade her to return to the house, but she insists on remaining outside. It is fully dark now, and cold. The ambulance stands in the yard, the navy Austin Twelve beside it. Gwen buries her head into Jack’s shoulder as the barn door opens and the first stretcher bearer appears. He holds her close, his expression grim, as Ted’s body, covered with a red woollen blanket, is carried out. Neither of them can bear to look as the ambulance doors close behind him.

Detective Inspector Gibson is the last to leave the barn. He ducks through the doorway and heads straight for them, the brown envelope Jack wisely left undisturbed clutched in his hand. As he comes closer, they see it has been ripped open.

‘Sad business,’ the Inspector says by way of greeting. He pauses as the ambulance putters into life, its headlights beaming through the darkness as it manoeuvres out of the yard and into the lane.

‘You’ve read the note?’ Jack asks.