6
The previous night, the dark had been as it always was—total, impenetrable. Ralph Laurent strode over the Moor, taking his usual well-trodden path. He knew this place, every fold, every jutting outcrop of jagged stone, all lying in wait to ambush the unwary, but never him. It may well have been early afternoon in the spring for all the care he took. This was his backyard, more of a friend than any human being ever could be.
He hadn’t enjoyed his enforced day off. A late start, by the time he went downstairs his wife had left for her cleaning job. At least, that’s what he had always thought it was. Lately, the idea that she was embroiled with someone else had become stronger with each passing day. Her mood had changed; she was brighter, more at ease with herself. The criticisms she made
