24

Two miles to Kate’s house. Thirty-five minutes at a fast walk.

Last time I’d visited, full of righteous anger at the way her sons were mistreating the Leckies, Kate had handled me expertly. Sat me down. Offered me tea. Took the momentum away from me. Let the old study with its shelves of dusty books and slowly ticking clock lull me into a place where civilised discussion was seemingly the only option.

Not this time.

Assuming one of her sons had fired the gun, their hands would smell of gunpowder. They’d be flushed with the -excitement of the mission, the exhilaration that comes from breaking that biggest taboo – thou shalt not kill. Men react differently to breaking that law. They’d either be sick with worry, or giddy with power. Either way, the story would be written on their faces.

I pounded on the front door, liking the sound it made. Here I am, it said, defender of the innocent, righter of wrongs. Give up your murderers and let them face the light.

No answer. No Kate. No timid maid. No young man, face flushed with victory. Crows squawked above nearby fields, and in the distance a tractor rumbled, old Beecham, getting an early start on the harvest. His fields all sloped southwards, putting him a few days ahead of the rest of us.

I looked up at the house and breathed deeply, willing the rushing blood to subside. Time for thought, not for action.

I walked around to the back, where her sons had parked their car last time I’d been here. An old farmyard, ancient barns succumbing to rot. No animals. No cars. The house was locked up, and every room was dark.

My conversation with Kate and her sons would have to wait, but not for long. The Leckies’ deaths would not go unanswered.