That day, four years ago, had been like any other on their farm in Maidstone: another day of their father’s aggressive moods, put-downs and bullying. Their mother overcompensated for their father’s lack of love and, as a result, the three of them were close. Their father was the outsider. He bullied Flora most, maybe because she was the eldest, or because she backchatted him more than Heather did. Whatever the reason, it was normal for him to shout abuse at them, particularly when their mother wasn’t in earshot. Flora would sneak into Heather’s room at night when they heard their parents arguing downstairs, and they would huddle together under the blankets until they heard the reassuring slam of the front door, which indicated their father had gone out. He never hit Margot. They were sure of that. But he was a hard man, devoid of humour, as though he’d just woken up one day and all the joy had seeped out of him. Their mum admitted it was like he’d had a personality transplant. He wasn’t her Keith any more.

But none of them knew what to do about it.

Thankfully, he’d never hit his daughters either, or shown any kind of physical violence.

Until that spring day in 1990.

It was their favourite season on the farm, because of the lambs. They liked to cuddle them, and occasionally feed them with a bottle. Years before, their father had joined in, showing them how to cradle a lamb’s warm little body in the crook of their arm, like a baby. That was until his fun-loving humour was replaced by a prickly, grumpy, anxious state and he snapped at them all the time.

Stress, their mother called it. Obnoxious-bastard syndrome was what Flora called it.

On that particular day their father had got out his shotgun because a cow had become entangled in barbed wire and had to be put down. ‘I need to put it out of its misery,’ he’d said, carrying the gun as though he was John Wayne.

Flora had glanced at Heather and grimaced. But half an hour later, as they were leaving the barn where the lambs were kept, they saw that their father had left his gun out, leaning against the barn gate.

Their parents were so strict about gun safety. They’d taught them how to use one, of course, but in very controlled conditions, with experts. And they were not allowed to touch a gun without adult supervision.

That didn’t stop Flora, who almost jumped on it with glee. ‘Look, it’s Dad’s gun.’

‘He’ll go mental. Put it back,’ said Heather, her heart racing at the thought of their father’s wrath. But Flora flung it to her shoulder and made pow-pow noises while pointing it towards the empty field.

‘Don’t!’ Heather cried. ‘It’s dangerous. I don’t think the safety catch is on.’