Maybe there was hope for him yet. ‘What does the internet have to say about Cold Christmas Church?’

‘Just loading.’ Chris cleared his throat, preparing to recite the information he’d been able to call up on their short journey to the top of the hill.

The local store owners had offered to recount further folkloric highlights, but Hawkins thought it more important to visit the place in what little daylight remained. She was still sceptical that the reason for their three dead bodies had much to do with the old church, or any associated old wives’ tales, but they were here now, so it was worth a look. If this recce turned up any questions they could always return afterwards to quiz the Trundles. For now her history lesson was limited to what the constable’s 4G data connection could muster.

‘OK.’ He swiped at the screen. ‘Cold Christmas Church dates back to 1086, and was built in the grounds of an estate owned at the time by Hugh De Desmaisnil. Originally it was meant only for private use, but was mostly demolished in 1853 due to the North–South alignment, leaving only the fifteenth-century tower present today. Originally it was known as St Mary’s and All Saints’, then as Thundridge Church; today as Cold Christmas.’

He glanced up, checking the road ahead, then back at his mobile. ‘There are lots of modern-day legends about supposed paranormal activity in and around the tower. Growling noises, sounds of deep breathing, even ghost-like apparitions. In the late seventies, a lady walking in the church grounds reported having seen an entire army exit the door of the tower and march straight through her.’

Hawkins nodded. ‘Your standard ghouls and goblins heritage site, then.’

‘Yes, ma’am. Looks that way.’

She slowed, catching sight of the road narrows sign the shopkeeper had told them to look for. Sure enough, it marked the turn through a walled entrance with ornate black gates.

The Alfa’s traction control light flickered as they left tarmac for a mixture of compacted mud and decaying leaves, twin strips of clear earth stretching away down a gentle incline, indicating semi-regular use.

Hawkins picked up speed when the track proved smooth, avenues of skeletal trees skimming past on either side as they approached the far end, where they reached another set of black iron gates, this time securely closed. It appeared to be the outpost for a private residence, but whatever kind of mansion lay beyond wasn’t visible, although the camera looking down at them might be worth investigating.

She bumped the Alfa on to a grass verge that had opened out to their left, noting a stable block as they cleared the adjoining vegetation, a single pony grazing inside its sturdy wooden fence.

Hawkins collected her crime scene torch from the glove box and they both stepped out on to the wet ground. She walked up to the fence to peer inside the stables. ‘Hello?’