From the hut where Wilford and his visitor had disappeared, a great cacophony of cackling and screeching erupted, accompanied by the flapping of scores of wings.

‘What are they doing in there?' asked Fry.

‘That bloke with the van is buying some of Wilford's birds, see,' said Sam, as if it was perfectly obvious. 'Wilford left them inside today, those young Marans.

But they're a bit active. It's better if you can move them at night — they don't give you as much trouble then.’

‘It sounds horrendous.'

‘They're good layers, them Marans,' said Sam. 'Mr Beeley, did you know Laura Vernon?'

‘I know the family. Corners-in, aren't they? Half the village seem to be comers-in these days. They've only been there a year or two, at the Mount. They walked in the pub one night, you know, when they first arrived. Eh, you should have seen their faces. They never thought they'd be mixing with the hoi polloi like us. But they couldn't walk straight out again, so they had to sit there and drink their gin and tonics like a right pair of southern pillocks.'

‘They're from Nottingham, I believe.’

Aye.’

Sam shifted his feet in the dry earth. One of them seemed to stick and move suddenly sideways, as if he had lost control of it through cramp. His shoe clanged against the side of an enamel bowl half full of water, left there for the geese, presumably.

‘Mr Beeley, we're asking everybody what they might have seen in the area of the Baulk at about the time Laura Vernon was killed,' said Fry.

‘Oh, you want my alibi, eh?'

‘No, that wasn't what I asked for, sir.’

Sam chuckled. 'Only I don't go in much for running after young girls these days. It's my legs, you see. Got them both bust once, in the mine. They mended, but they were never right after that. Now that I'm getting older, they don't work too well at all.'

‘Were you in the area on Saturday night?' asked Fry. 'Or Sunday morning?'

‘What's that accent?' asked Sam, cocking his head and scratching his ear with the knife. 'You Welsh, or what?'

‘I'm from the Black Country.'

‘Eh?'

‘Birmingham,' snapped Fry.

Ah. I've never been there. Wouldn't want to, either.’

‘Saturday night, Mr Beeley?'

‘Saturday night? Well, I'd be in the Drover till about eleven o'clock, with Wilford. It was a bit busy that night. Tourists, you know, in the summer. B B people. A lot of cars about too.' He shook his head sadly. 'I don't live far from the pub. I can just about walk that far. And we do tend to have a few drinks on a Saturday. No driving to do, you know.'

‘There were tourists in the pub. Strangers to the village, then.'

‘Full of them,' said Sam.

Wilford and the van driver emerged from the hut, tugging at several bulging sacks. A cloud of dark feathers drifted out of the hut behind them, settling on their shoulders and sticking in their hair. From the sacks came a steady complaint of trapped birds and an occasional rustle of feathers. The two men were sweating and dishevelled and breathing hard. Wilford was very red in the face and giving a series of faint, gasping laughs. The little man from the van looked wild-eyed, even frightened by his experience in the hut.

‘Sunday morning,' said Sam. 'Well, I don't get up too early these days. But I was dressed by about half past ten, when my son came to collect me. That's Davey. Him and his wife always take me for Sunday dinner at their place in Edendale.'

‘Do you come up here much to help Mr Cutts?' asked Cooper.

‘I'm not much use to him really. But I have to find something to fill my time.'

‘Does he have any other help?'

‘A lad or two, that he pays a few bob for the heavy work. And Harry comes up here too, to help.’

‘Harry Dickinson again?'

‘Yes, that Harry. You'll know him,' he said to Cooper.

The sacks thudded one after another into the back of the Transit, and the driver clambered in and began to coast back down the track. No money seemed to have changed hands between the two men.

‘Give us a hand here, Sam,' called Wilford. 'We've got one that's badly. Broke its legs on the wire, I reckon.’

‘Goat's out again, Wilford.'

‘She'll wait.’

Sam limped over towards the hut, and Wilford tossed him a hen that had been hanging upside down from his hand, its wings outspread, its beak gaping and panting. Fry had never seen a hen so close before, and was startled to see the thin red sliver of flesh that protruded from its beak, like the darting tongue of a snake. The bird had soiled itself, and the soft feathers round its anus were stained yellow. Fry swallowed, swearing never to eat an egg again.

‘Sam's a dab hand at this,' said Wilford cheerfully.

‘He doesn't look to have much strength in his wrists, does he? But it's all in the technique, see.'

‘It's just practice and a bit of a knack,' said Sam, taking a firm grip on the bird. He tucked its body under his armpit, folding its wings closed and pressing it tight against his side. Then he closed the fingers of his right hand around the hen's scrawny neck and pushed his thumb hard into its throat. He twisted and pulled suddenly. There was a faint crack and the bird's eyes went dull. The wings beat desperately, their dying strength defeating Sam Beeley's efforts to hold it still as they flapped wildly, releasing a spray of pinion feathers that drifted on to his trousers and boots. The bird's legs kicked frantically and its tail lifted to eject another spurt of yellow. Then its claws relaxed and hung downwards, pointing limply at the ground with pitiful finality.

‘You've killed it,' said Fry, astonished.

The two old men laughed, and she was amazed to see Cooper smiling too.

‘It's called putting them out of their misery,' said Sam. 'If you do it right, and do it quick, they feel no pain.’

‘It's disgusting,' said Fry. 'It's revolting.'

‘I suppose,' said Sam, holding out the limp bird towards her, 'that you won't want to take it home for your tea then.’

Fry took a step back as a dribble of saliva ran out of the bird's gaping beak and dripped into the dust. Its scaly legs looked cold and reptilian where they were gripped in Sam's bony fingers.

‘No?'

‘Never mind. I'll take it in for Connie,' said Wilford.

Cooper and Fry got back into the car. Fry wound up her window to keep out the musty smell of dried poultry droppings drifting from the door of the shed. The two old men stood watching them turn round, and Sam gave them a small, cheerful wave.

When they reached the bottom of the track, another van was turning in.

12

‘And now the good news,' said DCI Tailby.

Tired heads perked up all around the incident room. Most of the officers were finishing the daytime shift, winding down from the hectic first full day of a murder enquiry. Others were taking over for the evening, beginning their stint by getting up to date at the evening briefing.

Ben Cooper and Diane Fry sat together, reluctant, despite themselves, to break the professional bond that had formed between them by being paired up as a team. Fry still looked alert, her eyes fixed on Tailby, her notebook open on her knee. Cooper was weary, almost dazed, as if things weren't connecting for him properly. But he felt the tension within him increasing as the day came to a close. He couldn't stop his mind drifting away from the job towards a clamouring swarm of formless anxieties about his mother — sudden, stabbing fears about the immediate future, mingled with piercingly clear little memories of how she had once been, before her illness, in the not so distant past. He knew he would have difficulty tonight in making the transition from work to home. Wasn't the one supposed to be an escape from the other? As Tailby began to speak, Cooper looked down at Fry's pen, which was already starting to move across her notebook. He was surprised to see the page half covered in drawings of spiders with black, hairy bodies and long legs, their shapes etched deep into the paper with heavily scrawled ballpoint pen.