Chris broke the silence. ‘Shall I start knocking on doors, ma’am, see if anyone recognizes the victims?’

‘Not yet.’ Hawkins slotted the Alfa into reverse and backed up, bringing them level with the small corner shop she’d spotted as they entered the road. ‘Let’s try this place first.’

They left the car and walked up the stone steps to the shop entrance, which was flanked on one side by a classic but decrepit red telephone kiosk, and on the other by a post-mounted mailbox. The building itself was sturdy red brick, with a vaulted porch over the side entrance, and a late-Victorian street lamp beside the door.

Hawkins entered first, to find the kind of general store that hadn’t been seen inside the M25 for thirty years.

Heavy wooden furniture dominated the centre of the floor and every wall, shelf and surface was crammed with goods that mixed the modern mass-produced with wholesome, cellophane-wrapped products wearing hand-written labels. Fluorescent cardboard stars that would have looked more at home in a sixties comic strip highlighted various special offers. And beside them, an eighteenth-century staircase led upwards, hinting that the building had started life as a place of residence.

At the far end of the shop, an open archway led through to what looked like a traditional English tea room, with red checked tablecloths and a wall-mounted chalkboard displaying lunchtime specials in a spidery, multi-coloured scrawl. An elderly customer looked up from the nearest table, his peppermint shirt and purple cravat perfectly matching the establishment’s ambience.

And in the opposite corner two women, similar enough in appearance to be related, fussed behind yet more weighty pine. The elder – a white-haired lady somewhere in her late sixties – priced up bottles of rosé; while her accomplice fiddled with a modern till, tutting under her breath at the evidently unfathomable equipment. Hawkins walked over, making both of them look up.

She showed her warrant card, introduced herself and Chris. ‘Are you the proprietors here?’

The pair exchanged looks before the younger woman spoke. ‘Yes. I’m Alice Trundle.’ She was elegantly slim, with tightly curled hair. ‘This is my mother, Betsy. We’ve owned the place for twenty-one years.’

Hawkins glanced appreciatively at the shop. ‘I’m hoping you can help us with an ongoing investigation.’

‘Of course, if we can,’ Alice replied, apparently relieved by the distraction. ‘Aren’t we a bit outside your jurisdiction, though?’

‘It’s a cross-county operation.’ Hawkins flashed her a smile, wondering if she should suggest they continue without Betsy, who looked intimidated enough by the bright pink stars she was attaching to the necks of her bottles, let alone the kind of news Hawkins was about to deliver. But they needed all the help they could get.

She watched the sweet old lady. ‘I’m afraid three young men have been murdered.’