The one big thing that Nat didn’t even want to admit to himself was that it was a 99.999 percent certainty that someone from Proteus had seen, or been told about, the newspaper story.

But everything at Camellia Lane looked exactly as it had when they’d left that morning. If it hadn’t been for Woody’s blood-caked fur, Nat could almost imagine that the shooting and the visit to Meade Lodge had never happened. The only vehicles Nat could see outside number eleven were his mum’s old clunker and Mick’s red Mini Cooper.

In the kitchen his family was sitting at the table, their expressions as grave as those of funeral mourners.

“Have you got something to tell us?” asked Mick, his knees popping as he rose from the table. Nat had never seen his granddad look so grim before. It was like looking at a stranger.

Nat opened his mouth to speak, a torrent of words lining up to fall out. There was so much he wanted to say, but his tongue remained stubbornly superglued to the roof of his mouth.

“The police are on their way over,” continued Mick, his lips set in a grim line. “I just got off the phone with Bill Beechgood.”

“Sergeant Beechgood?” asked Nat, finding his tongue. “Why?”

Mick’s tone softened. “I’m sorry, son,” he said, “but they’re coming to take Woody away.”

The police! This wasn’t what Nat had expected to hear at all.

“The sergeant’s acting on a report from Tom Davis, Teddy Davis’s father,” said Mick. “A number of his deer have been killed.”

“Not just killed, Nat,” said Jude quietly. “Annihilated.”

“But wha …,” started Nat. Then a cold fear stole over him. “They think it’s Woody? But he’s a vegetarian.”

Mick shook his bald head impatiently, making his earrings dance.

“This is no time for jokes,” he said grimly. “Someone reported a large white dog running from the deer park with blood all over its chest and muzzle. I don’t have to be a bloomin’ brain surgeon to figure out they were describing Woody.”

“Woody has got blood all over him,” said Nat, relieved. “But Teddy Davis did it. He fired a BB gun at us.”

Mick’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What? And you didn’t think to tell us about something as serious as this?”

Nat swallowed. “It only just happened. I was going to tell you as soon as I …”

Mick interrupted him. “Where’s Woody now?” he demanded.

Nat pointed to the garden, trembling. Mick marched Nat over to the kitchen window.

“There. What’s that on his chest?”

“But that’s his own blood. I told you …” Nat paled beneath his tan. “Do you all really think Woody is a killer?”

Mick pursed his lips. “I wouldn’t have thought so a couple of days back,” he admitted, “but you must admit, he’s been acting funny lately.”