She pulled up at the steps and turned the engine off. The headlight dimmed and she was left sitting astride the bike in a pale gloom. When she removed her helmet she could hear nothing except the distant rumble of a tractor and, closer, a pheasant clucking out a call as it flew up to a roost in the branches of a nearby tree.

Silva dismounted and moved towards the front door. She climbed the steps and turned the big brass doorknob. The door opened.

‘Dad?’ she said. ‘Are you here?’

Nothing.

She walked in and carefully closed the door behind her. She fumbled at the wall until she found a switch. She flicked it and lights came on in the hall and stairwell.

‘Dad? Mrs Collins?’

A wash of embarrassment came over her as she pictured her dad and Mrs Collins upstairs, going at it like teenagers. She moved to the foot of the stairs. Listened again. Still nothing. No bed creaking, no sound of Mrs Collins crying out. She shook off the vision and turned and went across the hallway to the kitchen-diner. The table was set for two and a large Le Creuset casserole pot sat on a cast-iron trivet in the centre. Silva walked over and touched the pot. Latent heat, a faint warmth. She lifted the lid. Meat, potatoes, veg. Her father liked to eat at six prompt, retire early. The casserole had been on the table for over three hours.

She lowered the lid with a clink and returned to the hallway. At the far end was an under-the-stairs toilet and the door stood open a crack. A vertical bar of white suggested somebody had left the light on inside. She crossed to the door and pushed it open.

Mrs Collins. Sprawled on the floor, her body contorted, her head twisted to the side as if she had reacted in surprise to something. Her left ear and part of her jaw had gone, blown away by a bullet that had carried on to hit a small mirror above the washbasin. Crazed glass reflected Silva’s face in segments of emotion. Shock. Horror. Fear.

Silva knelt. The head wound hadn’t killed Mrs Collins. There’d been a second shot. Upper left side of the chest. A coup de grâce direct to the heart. The pale-blue apron she’d been wearing bore a smudge of red blood and, farther down, a brown gravy stain.

They’d come shortly before six, then. Mrs Collins had either run to the toilet to hide or she was already inside, perhaps washing her hands before calling Silva’s father to eat.

Dinner’s ready!

Words she never got to say.