She made one more rotation, checking the darker recesses, but Mike was right: there were no other vehicles nearby; certainly no black Jaguar XF registered with the DVLA to Joseph White.

‘There are several access points,’ she explained, striding away.

They passed the stable block and joined the narrow pathway. Their shoulders occasionally brushed foliage unseen in the darkness, only moonlight and the silver sheen of frost on the open fields lighting their way.

Hawkins stopped fifty yards in, turning to point north-west, whispering, ‘Cold Christmas church is set back from this path, over there behind the trees. The tower’s sealed, so whoever’s here will be outside. We’ll need to stay quiet from now on; check how many people there are before we go rushing in.’

Mike shifted his position, trying to catch a glimpse of their destination through the foliage. ‘What if there are hundreds of ’em?’

‘Then we call for back-up.’

‘No crazy risks?’

‘Of course not. We’ll keep our distance. If he has company, we’ll call in the cavalry to pick everyone up.’

‘Sounds great in theory. Let’s just try not to get lynched, OK?’

They moved on, alert for signs of activity, until Hawkins saw the break in the trees, and the fallen trunk that marked the entrance. She made a slowing motion with her left hand, warning Mike this was it.

They stopped at the end of the hedgerow, both dropping into crouching positions. Hawkins gave it a few seconds, listening for noises inside the graveyard, hearing nothing above the swirl of wind in the leaves. She leaned out.

As she remembered, the ruin was set towards the rear left corner of the open area, around thirty yards from their vantage point, rising between the sinister trees to loom above its surroundings. Darkness had stripped the tower of detail, rendering the structure an ebony silhouette, only its blunt roofline creating contrast against the fragmented, moonlit cloud. Hawkins scoured the gloom near the tower, straining her senses for signs of movement; anything to suggest there was someone else here. Sleet had started falling in misty sheets, and now the wind picked up, sending it pattering against the crooked, decaying headstones lining the perimeter, and sweeping its icy spray against her cheek, drowning the stillness, as if the elements knew this place had something to hide.

She dismissed the thought, wary of getting caught up in the atmosphere of nothing but failing mortar and centuries-old hyperbole.

Fairytale guff.

With that thought, the wind dropped, allowing her to focus. Although, as the stillness stretched, she had to conclude that the place seemed deserted.

Had she been wrong about White coming here?

‘See anything?’

She turned in response to Mike’s question, keeping her voice low. ‘Not yet.’

‘He ain’t here?’

‘Can’t tell.’ She rose, not yet willing to concede. ‘Come on.’