‘So you know that Hell burns,’ said Sutton. ‘Hell burns with an agony like no other.’

‘Yes, sir. And there’s no butter in Hell.’

Sutton stared at him, failing to smile at the joke, failing even to get the allusion. Cooper immediately wished he could take the words back. He felt embarrassed, realizing that Raymond Sutton might never have been the type for reading books, except one. Certainly not shamefully disrespectful parodies like Cold Comfort Farm.

Still, his brain kept throwing up images from the Gibbons book. The preacher, Amos Starkadder, hectoring the Church of the Quivering Brethren – ‘Ye’re all damned!’ And Brother Ambleforth, whose job was to lead the quivering, conducting the congregation with a poker to put them all in mind of hellfire.

Cooper wondered irreverently whether Raymond Sutton might get into the role on Christmas Day, if asked to pull a cracker by one of the female residents. ‘Hush, woman … Tempt me not wi’ motters and paper caps. Hell is paved wi’ such.’

‘So you’re like me, and you don’t believe in evil spirits?’ asked Sutton suddenly.

‘What? Ghosts, you mean?’

‘Not ghosts so much. More of … well, perhaps a presence in the atmosphere of the house.’

‘I’m not sure. Perhaps, in certain circumstances.’

‘When something dreadful has happened.’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you been to the old house?’

‘Yes, Mr Sutton.’

‘I always swore I wouldn’t take anything away from the place. I wanted it all burned, destroyed. I wanted someone to come in with a bulldozer and a big bloody skip, and cart it all off. It was cursed.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Sutton looked at him, working his mouth nervously. ‘There was one thing, though. There was the good book. Our family Bible.’

‘I saw it,’ said Cooper.

The old man gripped his arm. ‘Is it still there?’

‘Do you want me to see if I can get it for you?’

‘Yes.’ His grip relaxed, to Cooper’s relief. ‘Can you do that?’

‘I’ll have to ask my supervisor. But I’m sure it’s still safe.’

‘Thank you. You’re a good lad, coming to see me.’

‘Mr Sutton, I need to ask you about any employees you had on the farm in the last four years.’

‘Employees?’

‘You had a poultry production business. Do you remember the birds?’

Cooper noticed his voice rising, the way people’s voices did when they were talking to someone who was deaf or stupid, or foreign. Was Raymond Sutton deaf? There was no sign of a hearing aid, but that proved nothing. Small items like hearing aids and spectacles went missing very easily in residential care homes. False teeth too, sometimes.

‘We raised poultry, yes. We had thousands in the big sheds,’ said Sutton. ‘Did you want to buy some birds? You’re too late. We got rid of them. All the lot.’