He’d only been able to pick up snippets of conversation as he skirted around the house. Of course, he had a key. But he’d seen enough in the half hour he’d spent outside. The daughter had an attitude. Her stepmother was from the city and as jumpy as hell. As for the dad, he was a lump of a man, but unfit by the look of it. Lloyd could take him in a fight. Not that he would need to get physical. Cops might not carry guns, but out here in the wilderness he could justify a pistol to help put any fresh roadkill out of its misery. Not that anyone would know. On the days he carried his hunting rifle, nobody said a word. As for his senior officers . . . they kept in touch via police radio airways and email. Nobody bothered with the small Nighbrook police station, which sat on the edge of the woods. Besides, Lloyd had a feeling Ed would be spending time away from home, just as Grace’s father had done. It was uncanny, the similarities. A family of three with a stay-at-home mum and a dad who worked away. Up until now the few people who had rented Ivy Cottage were drifters, or artistic types – the sort of folk predisposed to pick up on its negative vibes. After a week under its roof, they packed their bags and left. But over the years the house had fallen into disrepair, and rather than keep up with the maintenance, the owner had sold the place.

Methodically, he rubbed the silicone cloth over the barrel of his revolver rifle, savouring the oily, metallic smell. The gun was one of several in his treasured collection, all legally owned. From his muzzle-loading pistol to his pump-action rifle, each firearm was meticulously cleaned. He couldn’t understand how anyone could sleep at night without protection of some kind. Of course, he had to be careful they didn’t get into the wrong hands. His gun case had a passcode, and nobody knew about the pistol kept in the folds of his mattress. If he was found to have issues with alcohol or mental health, his guns could be seized. But that hadn’t been the case with his father. His face darkened as he recalled his ten-year-old self opening his front door to the police. The blood making trails down the living room wallpaper. Bits of his father’s brain in his hair. Accidents happen. Or at least, that’s what he’d told the police.