Chris followed, reading from his phone. ‘Apparently, a good percentage of these graves are young children who died over one very cold winter, centuries ago. The tragedy prompted locals to rename both the nearby hamlet and its church, Cold Christmas.’ He added as Hawkins stood, ‘A lot of people think the souls of those dead children still inhabit the site.’

‘A haunted ruin.’ Hawkins turned back to the tower. ‘How original.’

She moved nearer, feeling the cold wetness of heavy dew transferring itself from the longer grass, through her trouser legs to her skin. The ruin loomed over them as a shiver clawed its way up her spine. She flexed her shoulders to shake it off. A little apprehension was reasonable, sensible, even, but it was just natural anxiety. Actual fear would be slightly absurd.

They drew level with the adjacent stretch of ground where the grass was noticeably shorter. Low mounds marked the corners.

‘No gravestones here.’ She pointed at the rectangular strip. ‘This must be where the main building was.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Chris said. ‘This website reckons there’s a mausoleum buried deep underground, where the old church stood.’

Hawkins shuddered again, and walked to the rear wall of the tower, where the remnants of a fire and some litter lay next to a couple of wooden boards, one with the words WE’RE COMING daubed across it in thick white paint.

‘Well, someone’s been here recently.’ She kicked at the ashes before turning to scan the graveyard again. ‘But what does any of this have to do with the case? Even if the three men did come here, it might be no more than coincidence.’

Chris nodded, short of an answer.

They stood in silence, looking up at the tower’s north face. There were no doors on this side; only a couple of windows at least fifteen feet up. Below them, another brick footing was slowly being claimed by the grass, suggesting that a small wing might once have existed here, too.

Hawkins moved on, wandering around to the tower’s last unseen wall, hoping to find a way inside.

She discovered an arched doorway, sealed with concrete, and covered with a wooden board, painted black. Only remnants of the smashed wood remained, suggesting that others had tried and failed to gain access to the tower, but the thick cement was fully intact.

There was no way in.

Chris arrived as she switched on her torch in the fast-descending gloom, shining it up at the structure, its light flashing off the heavy droplets of water that fell from the overhanging branches to thud lightly into the soft mud. Her beam came to rest on some graffiti sprayed in wavering blue above the door: a triangle with a crudely drawn eye in the centre.

She swept away the damp remains of a large spider’s web, drawing Chris’s attention to the symbol. ‘Isn’t that the all-seeing eye?’