The two women noticeably started, as if waiting for the statement to be retracted, like some breed of city humour they didn’t understand.

‘You mean …’ Alice considered her words, ‘… near here?’

‘Not exactly.’ Hawkins nodded at her sidekick, who produced photographs of Tennent, Wilson and Kowalski. ‘They were killed in Brixton, but we have reason to believe at least two of these men came here to Thundridge around six weeks ago. Would you happen to recognize any of them?’

The shopkeepers leaned in to study the photographs. The older woman shook her head, but after a moment of consideration, her daughter pinned the photo of Colin Wilson with a gentle finger. ‘Actually, I think this man was here around that time.’

Hawkins eyed her. ‘Just him?’

Alice nodded. ‘He was alone, although I suppose the others could have been waiting outside. I didn’t see.’

‘OK.’ Hawkins passed the pictures back to Chris. ‘What happened – did you speak?’

‘A little. He wanted directions.’

‘Where to?’

The woman frowned, as if the answer was obvious. ‘To the old ruin.’

Hawkins felt her own eyes narrow. None of their internet searches on Thundridge mentioned historic remains.

‘It’s the reason most outsiders come here,’ Alice expanded. ‘Technically it isn’t in Thundridge, which often throws people off, but it’s easier to park here, so we see a lot of strangers. Especially at this time of year.’

Hawkins glanced at Chris, reassuring herself that she wasn’t the only one not keeping up. ‘Maybe I’m being slow, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

The shopkeeper looked confused. ‘You don’t know about the church?’

Hawkins shook her head. ‘What church?’

‘The one at Cold Christmas,’ Betsy announced with quiet assurance, pointing through the shop wall, directions tripping off her tongue, clearly having become ingrained over decades. ‘Drive straight up the hill and turn left by the Sow and Pigs pub, on to Cold Christmas Lane. Turn left again about three-quarters of a mile in, when you see the black iron gates, park at the end of the track and follow the footpath west. The church is five hundred yards down on your right.’

Alice let her mother finish before adding, ‘You should get a move on if you’re going today. It’ll be dark inside half an hour, and there’s no artificial lighting down there.’

‘Hold on,’ Hawkins said. ‘Why would people come all the way from London to see this church?’

‘Actually,’ Alice corrected herself, ‘we shouldn’t call it a church, because they demolished most of it in the nineteenth century. But it still attracts all sorts, you know, and often they’ll pop in for directions.’ She shrugged. ‘I always say they’re half the reason we’re still trading.’

At last Hawkins felt some sort of answer approaching. ‘What do you mean, all sorts?’

‘Worshippers.’ Alice cocked her head, reaching for examples. ‘Pagans, occultists, spiritualists.’