He drove slowly, conscious of the dodgy wheel on the livestock trailer, not wanting to give the police an excuse to stop him again.

The holiday traffic was heavy, on the brow of the hill a deer and her fawn were crossing the road.

He heard the impatient anger of a foot on an accelerator behind him – the BMW raced past but did not stop.

He gently cradled the crushed body, its velvet head against his stubbled cheek – the mother turned, hummering. The fawn struggled, helpless to answer her call. He drew the penknife from his pocket. It only took a minute.

Sarah Hampton