No response, although the piebald pony raised its head, briefly studied them, and returned to tearing at the patchy grass.

‘Suit yourself.’ Hawkins turned away, scanning their surroundings in more detail, conscious that they needed to move on. To the east, a snaking line of dense greenery suggested a concealed river, intersecting open fields that ran to the rapidly dimming horizon.

She looked around to find Chris holding his phone, pointing west, along a footpath that skirted the stable building and disappeared into the foliage beyond. ‘I think it’s this way.’

‘Come on, then.’ Hawkins remote-locked the car and passed him at pace.

They entered the trees, forced to duck here and there to avoid overhanging branches. The temperature dropped notably the further they went. To their left, the incline back towards the road had become open fields, and Hawkins saw a low farmhouse at the top of the slope, the dull glow from the Christmas lights strung in lazy arcs across its windows signalling sunset’s imminence.

‘It should be just ahead on the right,’ Chris announced.

Hawkins glanced back at him, having picked up the slight tremor in his voice. They cleared a line of thick vegetation, beyond which the pathway opened into a wide grass area dotted with large trees. Fifty yards in, partially obscured by the surrounding foliage, stood their destination.

The remains of Cold Christmas Church.

Hawkins stared up at the tower.

The main edifice stood around fifty feet tall, mottled beige and grey walls stretching up to a flat roof, partly obscured by surrounding trees. Its footprint was almost square, with flared lateral supports at each corner, ancient cladding missing in places, revealing large patches of grey stone. Ivy covered almost half of the right-hand face, while on the nearside, an archer’s slot sat beneath a slatted window. And, high up on the nearest side, a rusting sign pronounced in shouting capitals: DANGER. KEEP OUT.

For a few seconds, the stillness became amplified, almost eerie, making Hawkins start when Chris materialized beside her. Then a rustling sound dragged her attention upwards again, as two large birds took off from the trees, veering away into the rapidly darkening sky.

Hawkins set off towards the tower, ignoring the icy breeze that seemed to pass right through her as the wind, unimpeded now over open ground, renewed its efforts. She skirted a large tree trunk at the edge of the grass area, noting several rows of decaying gravestones along the right-hand perimeter, and walked across to run a hand over the first stone’s age-weathered face. The flecked, pitted surface was too worn for names or dates to be deciphered at a glance.