They walked round the house and Cooper led her inside through the back door, passing the cleared rooms and entering the hallway.

‘They left everything. Look, they even left the family Bible on the hall table,’ said Cooper.

‘So one of them found God, do you think?’

‘It happens.’

‘It must have been Raymond. He sounds the type.’

‘Do you think there’s a type, Diane?’

‘Yes – those who show some signs of having a conscience in the first place. No, wait. There’s another type – the ones who’re already disturbed, hovering close to the edge. We see it all the time among convicted criminals. They get hold of some delusion that they interpret as a spiritual revelation, and suddenly they’re born again. They think they’re one of God’s chosen representatives on earth, redeemed from their sins for some special purpose that He has in mind for them. And, hey presto, they don’t have to feel guilty about their crimes any more.’

Cooper nodded, but reluctantly. He no longer went to church regularly himself, but he did at least feel guilty about not going. The way Fry talked about other people’s religious beliefs made him uncomfortable. The worst thing was that he couldn’t tell her how he felt, because he knew she’d take it as a sign of weakness.

‘Actually, there’s a third type, isn’t there?’ he said.

‘Oh, is there?’ Fry watched him expectantly.

‘There are those who pretend to have found religion, because they think it will help them get parole.’

‘Yes, it’s common enough. But it’s a tough act to keep up, especially when you get on the outside.’

‘I suppose so.’

Fry looked at the Bible, prominently displayed on the hall table. ‘I mean, if someone is genuinely religious, you’d expect to find some sign of it in their house, in private – not just for public show.’

She began to walk back towards the next room, and Cooper followed her. They moved cautiously about the house, looking for anything that resembled an office where the farm records might have been kept. But they ended up in the kitchen.

‘We might as well start here,’ said Cooper.

There were still no cats. Not even the signs of their food bowls or a litter tray. Wasn’t a cat the Celtic equivalent of the dog Cerberus, the guardian at the entrance to the Underworld? If this was a kind of hell, where were the guardians?

Cooper hoped the farm cats had taken themselves off into the woods and fields to find their own food. He didn’t like to think of them becoming roadkill. Their deaths would never be reported, if that was the case. Like the body in the excavated grave, they would never be missed, or even become a statistic.

He saw a Daily Express that lay folded on the kitchen table, gathering dust.

‘This newspaper is nearly nine months old.’