He had pulled his arm completely out by now, and lifted the hem of his jumper up over the side of his chest until his shoulder and arm were exposed. The scars were old, and had long since lost their vivid red glow. What was left behind was a faded pink, in contrast to his natural pale freckled forearm. Its contours rose and swirled in places like leathery brushstrokes. The disfiguration extended part way across his chest, then stopped suddenly in a thicker tidemark of scar tissue.

‘Locke came back the day I got out of hospital, to offer his sympathies, if you can believe that. Looked me in the eye and told me I was lucky my buildings didn’t have thatched roofs like my house. Told me how those old thatches take like kindling and go up in seconds.’

His face was flushed with anger now. The pent-up hatred for Locke had lain and festered for almost two decades, but it bubbled to the surface now.

‘The bastard told me I should get the wiring checked at home so the farmhouse wouldn’t go the same way. I didn’t tell Anne about that last part, God rest her soul.’

Evans looked off to the left as he spoke, and Porter followed his gaze to see a photograph of a younger Evans with his arm around his bride. He was unmistakeable in his suit, his beard just as prominent, she with a simple white dress and a modest bouquet of roses.

‘She’s no longer with us?’ asked Porter.

‘No,’ he said with a shake of his head, ‘but that was nothing to do with Locke.’ The anger in his eyes gave way to a more youthful sparkle, a reflection of good times long gone but still remembered. ‘Cancer. She died four years ago. She’s the reason I sold up in the end.’

‘How do you mean?’ asked Styles.

‘I didn’t have much to start with, Detective, so losing the business didn’t leave me any worse off, and I still ended up with some money to show for it, although not as much as I deserved.’ He gave a bitter chuckle. ‘She was all that really mattered to me, and he wouldn’t have stopped. I knew that then. Wouldn’t have stopped until there was nothing left, and I couldn’t risk anything happening to her. Couldn’t have lived with myself, especially not after some of the things his two meatheads said.’

‘Out of interest, Mr Evans, are these the two men you’re referring to?’

Porter pulled two pictures from his jacket pocket, one of Bolton, the other of Davies, and placed them on the table in front of Evans.

Evans nodded grimly. ‘That’s the bastards right there.’

‘And what was it they said?’