He walked out of the hamlet towards Hawkshead and along a narrow, winding road which looked down onto a field which sloped gently into the still Esthwaite Water, a small lake bordered by a forest at the bottom end. Beyond, he could see the craggy outline of the Old Man of Coniston and other mountains. He breathed in deeply through his nostrils and absorbed the sweet scent of the flowers, moist bracken and the subtle fern smell of the nearby wood.

After about 15 minutes, Brockman returned to the pub, bought himself a glass of wine and sat outside and waited. He was still early. Three glasses of wine and 45 minutes later, he was beginning to wonder if Scott was going to turn up. Scott was late. When the rotund landlord, who seemed to view all but a few of those who were no doubt his regulars with a degree of mild suspicion, asked Brockman what brought him to "these parts," Brockman saw his opportunity.

"I've come to meet an acquaintance of mine. He's quite new to the area." Brockman was making a calculated guess to show that he was who he said he was in the hope the landlord might offer him some information about Scott.

"Is he local, then?" said the man with his heavy, chesty voice.

"Yes. Simon lives in Near Sawrey. He's tall, dark haired and in his late thirties. You're not hiding him behind the bar, are you? I've never know him to miss a free pint!"

The landlord liked this last remark, affording himself a hearty chuckle which was immediately followed by a rasping cough.

"I think I know the lad you speak of. He's the one that's just moved into Firbank, just down the lane by that poncey bloke's guest house. Yeah. He come in here from time to time. He ain't been here long, though. A quiet one, your friend, ain't he."

"Yes. You could say that," said Brockman with another reassuring smile. "He's obviously been enjoying your ale too much!" More laughter. "Perhaps I'll come back later. If he comes in, tell him Rob was looking for him and that there's free drink waiting for him!"

"Ha! I will, young man. I will! And do please feel free to come in again soon and avail yourself of more of our fine wine and food. We also do a pretty lethal sticky toffee pudding!"

"I can resist anything other than temptation! Done! Thanks. Bye." His low key and plausible charm had worked again and elicited information out of people that might not have been obtained otherwise. But, although he enjoyed sweet talking people to his benefit, professionally, he increasingly had reservations about it on a personal level. He realised, even with the deceptively tough and canny landlord, that he was losing his once unflinchingly clinical attitude to such situations.

Brockman then set off through the hamlet and turned down the lane looking for Firbank. As he strolled down the road, the countryside around him opened up once more. The bird song faded back into earshot followed by the distant moo of a cow. About 200 yards along, on the left hand side, was Firbank. It was a small, thatched, pink washed cottage with a small garden at the front which displayed a few token flowers.

He walked straight up the paving slab path as the small pink coloured wooden gate was already open. Brockman knocked on the door and waited. There was no reply. He knocked again after about 20 seconds. Still no reply. He walked around the house and peered in through the windows. He could see it was sparsely furnished. But there was no sign of life.

Despite the mildness of the weather, Brockman suddenly felt a cold, uncomfortable chill run down his spine. His instinct told him something was not right. He went around to the front door and tried it. It was locked. He then decided to try the back one. It opened and led straight into the kitchen.

"Hello?" he said tentatively. "Simon! Are you here? It's Rob."

Still, there was no sound, not even a movement or a whisper.

Brockman decided to take a look around. Because the windows were small and the cottage was surrounded by trees, there was not much light in the cosily dark rooms. The place was a mess. Books, newspapers, plates, some broken, and various items of clothes were strewn all over the place. It looked like there could have been a burglary.

He rested his hand on the banister to have one final survey of the scene in the downstairs front room before going upstairs. It was wet. So, he wiped his hand on his white handkerchief and was horrified to see it was dark red. It was blood.

Brockman ran up the stairs and burst into the first room he could find. It was the bathroom. Nothing. He was breathing heavily. He opened another door in a state of heightened fear and inquisitiveness. It was an airing cupboard. There were two remaining doors, both slightly ajar. He kicked open the one to his left which faced onto the back of the cottage. It was an empty spare room. Still, there was no noise from inside or outside. His heart rate began to hasten as he nervously pushed open the last door to the main bedroom frightened of what he might find.

It was the foot he saw first. The sight of the rest of Scott's naked and limp body followed. His head was covered in blood. Some of it had matted with his thick, dark and dishevelled hair. His eyes were open, trance like, staring out of the small window which looked onto the contrastingly soothing sight of fields and Esthwaite Water. Both his hands had been manacled with coarse rope to either end of the headrail while both his feet were tied in a similar fashion to the bottom of the bed.

Brockman's gaze slowly scanned the sight in front of him. He stopped when he looked at Scott's head. He felt a sinister chill inside him when he looked more closely. Scott had had a sign of the cross carved into his forehead. There was no mistaking it. It was such an unnatural wound to have. Screwing his face up squeamishly, he felt for a pulse on the side of Scott's neck. But he knew he would feel nothing. Scott was dead. He had been murdered and killed by the same person who killed Sharon Mason. He was now alarmingly sure of it.