i (#litres_trial_promo)
ii (#litres_trial_promo)
iii (#litres_trial_promo)
iv (#litres_trial_promo)
v (#litres_trial_promo)
vi (#litres_trial_promo)
vii (#litres_trial_promo)
viii (#litres_trial_promo)
ix (#litres_trial_promo)
x (#litres_trial_promo)
xi (#litres_trial_promo)
Part Three: Polygon
i (#litres_trial_promo)
ii (#litres_trial_promo)
iii (#litres_trial_promo)
iv (#litres_trial_promo)
v (#litres_trial_promo)
vi (#litres_trial_promo)
vii (#litres_trial_promo)
viii (#litres_trial_promo)
ix (#litres_trial_promo)
x (#litres_trial_promo)
xi (#litres_trial_promo)
xii (#litres_trial_promo)
xiii (#litres_trial_promo)
xiv (#litres_trial_promo)
xv (#litres_trial_promo)
xvi (#litres_trial_promo)
xvii (#litres_trial_promo)
Part Four: Wanwood
i (#litres_trial_promo)
ii (#litres_trial_promo)
iii (#litres_trial_promo)
iv (#litres_trial_promo)
v (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Authorâs Note (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
By Reginald Hill (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
PROLOGUE (#uca644583-6410-5fab-b00f-e2d9704fd38c)
Monday morning, start of a new week, air bright as ice in a crystal glass, brandy-gold sun pouring from delft-blue sky, the old bracken glowing on the rolling moors, the trees still pied with their unblasted leaves, the pastures still green with their unmuddied grass, as October runs into November and thinks itâs September still.
Edgar Wield drove slowly out of Enscombe, slowly because on mornings like this what you were driving through was far more important than where you were driving to, and also because during the short time heâd been living in the village heâd learned that only a fool assumed that the narrow roads ran clear further than the next bend.
His caution was rewarded when he eased round a corner and found George Creed shepherding the stragglers of a flock of sheep through a gate into a field set up with holding pens. The sight made him smile at the echo of his first sighting of Creed doing much the same task on this very road. Since then theyâd become both neighbours and friends.
ââMorning, George, fine-looking beasts,â he called through his open window.
Domicile entitled him to this pretension of expertise, though he wasnât altogether sure whether the term beasts could legitimately be applied to sheep as well as cattle.
ââMorning, Edgar,â said Creed. âHappen theyâll do. Sounds daft, but Iâll be sorry to see them go.â
âTheyâre off then?â said Wield now taking in the significance of the pens.
âAye, folk have got to eat, thatâs what farmingâs all about. But the older I get, the more it bothers me, selling off what Iâve bred up. Donât be saying owt of this down in the Morris else theyâll be thinking Iâm going soft in the head!â