The young labourer propped the Raleigh against the wall of the barn, a huge structure with a corrugated-iron roof. The walls were of concrete block up to head height, from which rose vertical slatted timbers. A large corrugated-iron door gave access for vehicles, but the youth went to a small door alongside it and again unlocked another large padlock.

Whistling tunelessly between his teeth, he went into the gloom within the barn and pulled back the two metal bars that locked the main door and, with a heave, pushed it open. He kept walking until the door was flat against the outside wall, where he secured it by a rusty chain to a staple. In high winds, it was a beast to push open, but today the air was warm and still.

With the full light streaming into the barn, he could now see the usual collection of farm machinery under repair, a couple of tractors with their radiators and fuel tanks removed and a Land Rover minus its engine.

It was a moment before his eyes, used to the familiar scene, realized that something was not right. He was looking directly at the soles of a pair of boots which were projecting towards him from under a large blue tractor. They were attached to a pair of legs and, as he slowly moved forward, his uncomprehending mind was forced to accept that not only was the top end of the body directly under the huge back wheel of the Fordson but that the dark stain that had spread beneath it was certainly not motor oil.

After gaping at the body for long enough to recognize the clothing as that of their mechanic, Tom Littleman, the apprentice grabbed his bicycle and pedalled like fury back along the road to Ty Croes Farm, four fields away.