‘So you don’t think you’d be able to identify her, Mr Wilding?’

‘Not for certain. Sorry.’

‘You spoke to her, though, didn’t you? What did she sound like?’

‘Well, I reckon she had a bit of an accent,’ said Wilding. ‘But I couldn’t really place it. I didn’t speak to her that often, and even then it wasn’t to hold a conversation. Most often, it was through that intercom thing on the gate. And, to be honest, I wouldn’t recognize my own mother speaking through one of those.’

‘Did you ever see anyone else coming or going from Bain House?’

‘No, never.’

‘Any cars parked there?’

‘Just Miss Shepherd’s. It’s a Volvo, I think.’

‘And these gates were always closed, as far as you know?’

‘Always. She kept everyone out, including me.’

‘One last thing,’ said Cooper. ‘What was it you brought for her this morning?’

‘Oh, there was a package. It was a bit too big to get in the letter box. Can I give it to you?’

‘Yes, please. I’ll let you have a receipt.’

Wilding handed him a small parcel about nine inches long. ‘Miss Shepherd never got much mail. I hope it was nothing to do with what happened to her.’

‘Well, it was the reason she was found today, instead of in a week’s time.’

 By the time Diane Fry arrived in Foxlow, there was no room for anyone to park anywhere near Bain House. She had to leave her Peugeot on the roadside close to a stone wall and walk to the RV point. Cooper met her near the gates as he was clearing the way for Bernie Wilding to get his van out.

‘Can you bring me up to speed, Ben?’ she asked.

‘Sure. I’ve made notes.’

‘I thought you would have.’

Cooper ran through the details. Fry listened carefully, finding nothing to fault him on. He thought he’d done pretty well, considering he hadn’t been at the scene much longer than she had herself.

‘She sounds like a bit of a recluse,’ said Fry when he’d finished.

He wondered if Fry felt the same slight shiver of recognition that he did at some of the details. There were times in many people’s lives when they went to great lengths to avoid contact with anyone else. It wasn’t so unusual. Just a bit extreme, perhaps, in Rose Shepherd’s case.

‘Actually, I used to know a lady who was a real recluse,’ he said. ‘Old Annie, we called her. When I was a child, she lived in an old cottage near the farm. She must have been there for donkey’s years, because the place was getting very run down. But she didn’t seem to have any relatives – or if she did, they never bothered to visit her. Annie stayed in her house watching TV and listening to the radio, much like Miss Shepherd must have done.’

They began to walk towards the house. The front door stood open, officers still coming and going with bagged items for examination.

‘No one visited Annie at all?’ asked Fry.

‘Well, Mum used to call on her occasionally to see if she was all right. A few times a year, she was invited to our house. Boxing Day, that was a time when we always had to have her round. As kids, we used to dread her coming.’

‘Why?’

‘Annie was one of those lonely people who didn’t speak to anyone for weeks on end, then couldn’t help talking far too much when she finally got into company. It was as if she had to prove to herself that she could still hold a conversation, that somebody would listen to her when she was speaking. I suppose she needed to be sure that she still existed in other people’s eyes.’

‘Were you psychoanalysing people even then?’ said Fry. ‘Yes, I bet you were. I can just see you as an eight-year-old Sigmund Freud.’

But Cooper took no notice. He knew her well enough by now. She made those remarks out of a sort of defensive instinct sometimes. In fact, whenever he talked about vulnerable and lonely people, it seemed.

‘Of course, the result was that everyone tried to steer clear of Old Annie,’ he said. ‘It was probably why her relatives never visited her, and why even the postman kept his van door open and the engine running. Mum always said she had trouble getting away from the cottage once she was inside.’

‘No one likes being trapped by an old bore.’

‘Yes, I suppose Annie was a terrible old bore, but it was more than that. When I was a small child I found her quite frightening. She had that slightly hysterical tone to her voice that always makes people nervous. So people went out of their way to avoid her.’

‘God help me, but I hope I die before I get like that.’

They found Hitchens and Kessen at the edge of the field backing on to the garden of Bain House. The DCI seemed to be sniffing the air, trying to detect the scent of his suspect, like a dog. Wayne Abbott was walking across the field towards them, his boots crunching through the ridges of ploughed soil.

‘I was always taught to go around the edge of a field so as not to damage the crop,’ he said. ‘But I’m making an exception today, because the edge of the field is exactly where your tyre marks are.’

‘The tyre marks of what?’

‘A black car possibly, but a dark colour certainly.’

Kessen looked surprised, and perhaps a bit irritated. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘Well, I’m betting if they drove openly across this field they were hoping that residents living nearby would think they were out lamping.’

‘Lamping?’

‘That’s when people go out into the countryside to shoot animals at night. Lampers use a bright light to dazzle their quarry.’

‘Yes, I know about that – rabbits and such like.’

‘Well, not just rabbits. Badgers, deer, sheep – you name it. Anything that’ll stand up and be shot at.’ Abbott’s eyes flickered around the group. ‘DC Cooper will tell you about it. I’m sure he must have done a bit of lamping himself.’

‘Well …’ began Cooper. But no one was listening to him.

‘But the thing is,’ said Abbott, ‘if local people thought somebody was out lamping that night, they probably wouldn’t have bothered to dial 999, even when they heard shots.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘It’s different in the country – you get used to hearing gunshots. In the city, someone might call the police, but out here you wonder how many brace they’ve potted.’

‘I understand that. But the colour of the vehicle …?’

‘Well, you wouldn’t go lamping in a white car, would you? You want your target to focus on the light, not on the paintwork of your bonnet.’

‘Nothing else, apart from the tyre marks?’

‘Nope. I was hoping for some shell casings. A brass casing could give us some prints, or there might be marks left by the weapon’s extractor or firing pin. But there’s nothing here that we can see.’

‘All right. Thanks.’

‘So it looks as though the suspect didn’t bother going into the house. Clever.’

‘Clever?’

‘Well, it makes it more difficult for us. We always have a better chance of coming up with something from a closed scene. Like the bedroom, for instance. But a ploughed field? And two days after the incident? Better start praying for a miracle.’

Kessen stared at the house. ‘All right, it was clever. But I wonder what the shooter did to get Rose Shepherd’s attention.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Hitchens.

‘Well, if he made the hit from the field, he must have found some way to get his victim to the window. I can’t believe he was prepared to sit out here all night on the off-chance that she’d decide to get out of bed and take a look at the stars.’

‘A phone call, I reckon,’ said Hitchens. ‘It’d be easy enough to phone her on a mobile from the car.’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s starting to look like a professional job, isn’t it?’

‘I’m afraid so.’ Kessen nodded. ‘Yes, he could easily have phoned Miss Shepherd and woken her up. But what did he say to get her to come to the window? What could he have said that would make her walk straight into his sights?’

 While Abbott organized a detailed search of the field, Cooper took the chance to report what the postman Bernie Wilding had told him about never seeing Miss Shepherd’s face clearly.