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before reaching the houses. The sky was deeply black and he wondered how Young Mike had managed to find his way.
    Both cottages had lights coming from their front windows; Den had no way of knowing which one belonged to Mrs O’Farrell. He examined what he could see of the two dwellings.The further one seemed to be less well kept; its modest patch of garden appeared to be home to various pieces of defunct equipment. In the shadows he could see two bikes on their sides; an aluminium ladder missing some rungs; a metal bucket without a bottom and other bits of scrap metal. By comparison the nearer cottage boasted a tidy winter garden and no clutter. None of this, however, told him which was the house he sought. Was Mrs O’Farrell a slut or a paragon? Had Sean been a slob or Mr Pernickety? As he dithered, the door of the nearer house opened.
    ‘Den?’ came Young Mike’s voice. ‘Are you out there?’
    ‘How’s it going?’ Den answered him. ‘It’s bloody dark out here. Couldn’t tell which house it was.’
    ‘Tell me about it. I fell in a ditch walking down here.’
    ‘Glad I brought the car then. Have you got Mrs O’Farrell in there?’
    ‘She’s in the living room. I told her you’d want a word.’ They were speaking in low tones and Den was conscious of anxiety building inside him. Confronting a new widow was never easy.
    Mike led the way through a short passage to a warm room, where Den found a huddled woman looking so white she was almost green. She sat in a large, well-upholstered armchair beside anopen log fire. ‘Good evening, madam,’ Den said tentatively. ‘I’m really sorry we’ve had to give you such bad news.’
    ‘I’m never going to manage without Sean,’ she bleated, her voice high and quavery. She looked at Den piteously. ‘How am I going to manage?’
    ‘Mrs O’Farrell isn’t very well,’ Mike explained. ‘And her daughter’s away for the night. She isn’t sure she’ll be able to cope by herself.’
    ‘Perhaps the people next door …?’ Den suggested. ‘Otherwise we can contact Social Services for you. Although …’ He knew from experience there wasn’t a chance in a million that anyone would be provided at this time of night, just to sit with a relatively young woman who didn’t look too sick to fend for herself. ‘The best thing would be to contact your daughter and ask her to come home. How far away is she? She needs to be told about her father anyway.’
    ‘She’s in Tavistock, at her boyfriend’s house. But she can’t come back by herself. She’s only fifteen. Her father would have to fetch her.’ Hearing her own words, the woman clapped a hand over her mouth. Den noted the vigour of the gesture.
    ‘Well, I’m sure we can work something out,’ he said briskly. ‘But for now, would you just answer a few routine questions for me?’ He didn’t give her time to respond, but quickly producedhis notepad and pencil. ‘First, your full name, please.’
    ‘Heather Elizabeth O’Farrell.’
    ‘And your husband’s full name and age.’
    The strategy worked as it almost always did. ‘Sean James O’Farrell,’ she said promptly. ‘He was thirty-eight on Christmas Eve.’
    Den took her full postal address and phone number, before asking, ‘And when did you last see him today?’
    ‘After dinner. He made me some soup and scrambled eggs and then went back to see to something in the yard.’
    Yet again, Den had cause to be thankful for his time with Lilah. How many policemen would be so au fait with the jargon? The yard meant not just a single piece of ground surrounded by buildings, but the entire complex of farm structures – which, on Dunsworthy, stretched to close to half an acre of covered barns, sheds, pens, all connected by a byzantine arrangement of gates and fences. ‘What time was that?’ he asked.
    ‘Two o’clock.’
    ‘You’re sure you can be that precise?’
    ‘Oh yes. He only takes the hour for lunch. Exactly one till two. Gordon’s very