Charlie said, ‘What makes you think he’s coming back?’

‘Just a feeling, I suppose.’

‘I wouldn’t bank on it, if I were you, miss.’

Joyce said nothing, wringing out the dishcloth in the silence, but she worried that her thoughts were loud enough to hear. When she swallowed, it was like a boulder rolling down her throat, but nobody looked sideways at her or said, ‘You’ve gone quiet, Joyce. Why’s that? A guilty conscience?’ which is how it would’ve happened in a Zane Grey book, causing some hot-tempered horseman to draw out his gun. Her little altercation in the field with Mr Hollis hadn’t been forgotten and she sensed an undertone of blame whenever they discussed the matter. It was better to stay mute about all that. Instead, she let her brother prattle on, the way he liked to do. She could always hide behind his talk, even though what Charlie knew about the situation could be written on a grain of salt.

By their account of things, the Mayhoods hadn’t found too many answers in their search for Hollis either. They’d been asking round the village for a while and nobody was shocked to learn he’d flown the coop. The old man was renowned for being a fickle sort, and no one ever paid too much attention to his whereabouts. He wasn’t married, had no children, no old friends to phone or visit. The barmaid at the Barley Mow had said he’d long had problems with the drink: he’d fallen foul of everyone who’d ever trusted him, including his own brother, and he’d got the boot from the last farm he’d worked because of it (she knew, because her cousin was the one who’d sacked him). From the barmaid, they’d got word of where old Hollis parked his caravan and Mr Mayhood had gone down to have a look around. Well, that had been a frantic hour for everyone. Joyce had waited on the landing for the sight of him returning in the flatbed lorry, polishing the windowsills and skirting boards up there until they shone as well as any mirror in the house. She’d earwigged from the banister above when he’d come back: ‘Nothing – not a sign,’ he’d said to Florence in the hall. Thank Christ for that. ‘The door was padlocked. Floor’s been mopped inside and everything’s been tidied. Nothing but some folded sheets and blankets on the bench, as far as I could see. He’s not gone in a hurry, that’s for sure. He’s had this planned.’ With every other day that passed, the more resigned the Mayhoods seemed to that idea.

Charlie was reminding everyone about this now. ‘I’m saying, if you’re gonna do a runner overnight, why stop and fold your linen? He’s had it in his mind to go for ages, and he didn’t even think to let you know.’ She’d always thought her brother would’ve made a decent copper: he liked to press his nose in other people’s business and complain about the smell. But she couldn’t tell him he was wrong this time.