16
Fearn took him out onto the Moor that Saturday. It was still early enough for the sky not to be totally black. A dog was at Fearn’s side, a sandy coloured half-terrier that he called Barney. He was a lovely looking dog, a wide grin on his mouth and a tail that gyrated like a helicopter rotor-blade. Salmon ruffled his neck and the dog licked his hand. “He’s lovely. Is he yours?”
“The wife’s.”
Salmon said no more. He didn’t want to pursue that line of thought. If Fearn wished to volunteer any information, then that was up to him. Salmon preferred to keep his questions to himself.
It was dry, a light breeze stirred through the grass. They took a different route from the one they had followed to the old cottage just a few days before with the children. Veering way beyond Brown Willy, Sa
