But according to its website, this had been the first in the UK, built in the Sixties by Serbs displaced during World War Two on land sold to them at a special rate by the philanthropic Cadbury family. The Cadbury name was all over Bournville, of course, because they’d founded it, moving their chocolate factory out from the city centre in Victorian times to what had been fields then, building their model village for the workforce. The family was Quaker and even now, you couldn’t buy booze here.

The village had become a suburb long ago but it was still green and open, liberally scattered with trees. The church was set back from the road on a slight rise, standing proudly on its corner like the symbol of resilience it was. She’d been weirdly moved by the story of how the displaced Serbs had built it with their own hands, doing their paid work at night so they could labour by day, living on very little while they scratched together the money to pay for it. The building seemed to embody the story: its footprint was small, the walls just brick, but it reached twice as high as the houses across the street, cresting in a complicated roof of arches and multiple levels, a high copper-clad dome.

The entrance was round this corner, opposite the medical centre whose small car park she was in. Twenty minutes ago, a bald, dark-bearded man had driven up to the gate to the church compound, unlocked it then driven through, out of sight. After a couple of minutes, he’d reappeared on foot, stocky in a charcoal suit, and opened the double doors of the church itself. Good, Robin thought; even if Ana arrived and left by car, she’d enter the building this way, and she’d have an opportunity to approach her.

As far as Maggie knew, Robin was back on the trading estate in Hockley having another crack at Michael Dixon, but his luck had held for a second day. She felt guilty, of course, especially after the two-hour lunch, but what could she do? She’d had to come; after this, Tuesday, there wasn’t another service until Saturday morning.

Vespers started at five. At ten to, a silver Nissan Micra turned off Cob Lane and indicated into the church drive. A man in his sixties, probably, alone. A moment later, a couple arrived, the woman’s grey hair just visible under a green patterned headscarf. Then, within a minute, the trickle became a flood, relatively speaking, twelve or fifteen cars appearing at the mouth of the little lane, making the sharp turn onto the church grounds. Unsurprisingly, given the time, a lot of the congregants were retirement-age but a couple in their twenties walked up, holding hands, and she saw two men in their forties, another of thirty or so, shaven-headed and smooth-faced.