“I saw her fall. Dead. Limp on the ground. It was dark. And then they panicked.

“I can’t remember anything about going back down the hill, can’t remember anything after that except the burial, down in the dell by my dad’s place.”

“The same night?” asked Strike.

“I think so, I think it was,” said Billy nervously. “Because I remember looking out of my bedroom window and it was still dark and they were carrying it to the dell, my dad and him.”

“Who’s ‘him’?”

“The one who killed her. I think it was him. Big guy. White hair. And they put a bundle in the ground, all wrapped up in a pink blanket, and they closed it in.”

“Did you ask your father about what you’d seen?”

“No,” said Billy. “You didn’t ask my dad questions about what he did for the family.”

“For which family?”

Billy frowned in what seemed to be genuine puzzlement.

“You mean, for your family?”

“No. The family he worked for. The Chiswells.”

Strike had the impression that this was the first time the dead minister’s family name had been mentioned in front of the two psychiatrists. He saw two pens falter.

“How was the burial connected with them?”

Billy seemed confused. He opened his mouth to say something, appeared to change his mind, frowned around the pale pink walls and fell to gnawing his forefinger again. Finally, he said:

“I don’t know why I said that.”

It didn’t feel like a lie or a denial. Billy seemed genuinely surprised by the words that had fallen out of his mouth.

“You can’t remember hearing anything, or seeing anything, that would make you think he was burying the child for the Chiswells?”

“No,” said Billy slowly, brow furrowed. “I just… I thought then, when I said it… he was doing a favor for… like I heard something, after…”

He shook his head.

“Ignore that, I don’t know why I said it.”

People, places and things, thought Strike, taking out his notebook and opening it.

“Other than Jimmy and the little girl who died,” said Strike, “what can you remember about the group of people who went to the horse that night? How many of them would you say were there?”

Billy thought hard.

“I don’t know. Maybe… maybe eight, ten people?”

“All men?”

“No. There were women, too.”

Over Billy’s shoulder, Strike saw the female psychiatrist raise her eyebrows.

“Can you remember anything else about the group? I know you were young,” Strike said, anticipating Billy’s objection, “and I know you might have been given something that disoriented you, but can you remember anything you haven’t told me? Anything they did? Anything they were wearing? Can you remember anyone’s hair or skin color? Anything at all?”

There was a long pause, then Billy closed his eyes briefly and shook his head once, as though disagreeing firmly with a suggestion only he could hear.

“She was dark. The little girl. Like…”

By a tiny turn of his head, he indicated the female doctor behind him.

“Asian?” said Strike.

“Maybe,” said Billy, “yeah. Black hair.”

“Who carried you up the hill?”

“Jimmy and one of the other men took turns.”

“Nobody talked about why they were going up there in the dark?”

“I think they wanted to get to the eye,” said Billy.

“The eye of the horse?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” said Billy, and he ran his hands nervously over his shaven head. “There are stories about the eye, you know. He strangled her in the eye, I know that. I can remember that, all right. She pissed herself as she died. I saw it spattering on the white.”

“And you can’t remember anything about the man who did it?”

But Billy’s face had crumpled. Hunched over, he heaved with dry sobs, shaking his head. The male doctor half rose from his seat. Billy seemed to sense the movement, because he steadied himself and shook his head.

“I’m all right,” he said, “I want to tell him. I’ve got to know if it’s real. All my life, I can’t stand it anymore, I’ve got to know. Let him ask me, I know he’s got to. Let him ask me,” said Billy, “I can take it.”

The psychiatrist sat slowly back down.

“Don’t forget your tea, Billy.”

“Yeah,” said Billy, blinking away the tears in his eyes and wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve. “All right.”

He took the mug between his bandaged hand and his good one, and took a sip.

“OK to continue?” Strike asked him.

“Yeah,” said Billy quietly. “Go on.”

“Can you remember anyone ever mentioning a girl called Suki Lewis, Billy?”

Strike had expected a “no.” He had already turned the page to the list of questions written under the heading “Places” when Billy said:

“Yeah.”

“What?” said Strike.

“The Butcher brothers knew her,” said Billy. “Mates of Jimmy’s from home. They did a bit of work round the Chiswells’ place sometimes, with Dad. Bit of gardening and help with the horses.”

“They knew Suki Lewis?”

“Yeah. She ran away, didn’t she?” said Billy. “She was on the local news. The Butchers were excited because they seen her picture on the telly and they knew her family. Her mum was a headcase. Yeah, she was in care and she ran away to Aberdeen.”

“Aberdeen?”

“Yeah. That’s what the Butchers said.”

“She was twelve.”

“She had family up there. They let her stay.”

“Is that right?” said Strike.

He wondered whether Aberdeen had seemed unfathomably remote to the teenage Butchers of Oxfordshire, and whether they had been more inclined to believe this story because it was, to them, uncheckable and so, strangely, more believable.

“We’re talking about Tegan’s brothers, right?” asked Strike.

“You can see he’s good,” Billy said naively over his shoulder, to the male psychiatrist, “can’t you? See how much he knows? Yeah,” he said, turning back to Strike. “She’s their little sister. They were like us, working for the Chiswells. There used to be a lot to do in the old days, but they sold off a lot of the land. They don’t need so many people anymore.”

He drank some more tea, the mug in both hands.

“Billy,” said Strike, “d’you know where you’ve been since you came to my office?”

At once, the tic reappeared. Billy’s right hand released the warm mug and touched his nose and chest in quick, nervous succession.

“I was… Jimmy doesn’t want me to talk about that,” he said, setting the mug clumsily back on the desk. “He told me not to.”

“I think it’s more important you answer Mr. Strike’s questions than worry about what your brother thinks,” said the male doctor, from behind Strike. “You know, you don’t have to see Jimmy if you don’t want to, Billy. We can ask him to give you some time here, to get better in peace.”