Today was meant to be a day off as far as Lloyd was concerned. But there was no rest from the thoughts that wound around him like vines, squeezing so tightly that he could barely breathe. He sat on the periphery of the forest, watching Ivy Cottage through narrowed eyes. They were in there, plotting against him. Planning to take him down. They would not be happy until Nighbrook and its occupants were left in ruins. He could imagine it on the national news. A village left in disgrace. He would be the laughing stock of the police force.

His hand fell on the half-litre bottle of single malt and he tipped it to his lips. Nectar. Not as much as he’d like, but enough to take the sting away. The villagers had spoken of buying Ivy Cottage between them and bulldozing it to the ground. But none were willing to put their money where their mouth was, which was why he had a mess to clean up.

He looked at the rear-view mirror, catching sight of his bloodshot eyes. Last night, as he took to drinking, he had felt a piece of his rational mind slip away. Joanne hadn’t been strong enough to stop him. As if it were as simple as hiding the key to the drinks cabinet – all he had to do was put his boot through the wood and warn her she’d suffer the same fate if she didn’t shut the fuck up. That had been enough to silence her. He’d sat on his armchair, gun on one side, his bottle cradled between his legs, opening the door to the demons of his addiction.

He replayed the visit to Ivy Cottage. The air had been crisp and clean. A blanket of snow had settled on the landscape, and the last glimmers of daylight had sliced through the branches of the ancient beech trees. He’d trudged, head down, breath fogged. But he hadn’t been cold. He’d been warmed by a nip from the hip flask in his inside coat pocket. His faithful friend.

It had been an argument with Joanne that had driven him out of his home on a night when he should have been warming his legs by the fire. It was an overused cliché to say his wife didn’t understand him, but how could she? The strongest thing she ever drank was a cup of Yorkshire Tea. Inhaling a deep breath of forest air, he recalled her cawing voice as she’d reeled off the same old argument. She was a lot feistier back then. Hormonal, he supposed. People were talking about him and Grace, and their ‘special’ friendship, she’d said. Joanne was at the heart of the community. It all filtered back to her.