Now that he looked at Raymond Sutton more closely in the light, Cooper could see that the old man’s skin was dry, and faintly yellow. He was reminded of the kitchen at Pity Wood Farm, the tint of the walls and the smoky stains on the ceiling. Mr Sutton would have fitted into the Yellow Room naturally, almost as if he’d decorated it in his own image.

Perhaps some kind of liver problem had caused this unhealthy colour. He made a note to ask one of the staff about Mr Sutton’s physical health. Heartless as it might seem, no investigation team wanted their chief witness dying before he could provide a full statement.

Chief witness? Raymond Sutton might yet turn out to be the principal suspect. All the more reason to be concerned about his health.

‘Do you remember me, sir? I’m Detective Constable Cooper, from Edendale Police. I came to see you the other day, with my inspector.’

‘I don’t get many visitors, lad,’ said Sutton. ‘How would I forget?’

Cooper mentally crossed his fingers that Mr Sutton was having a good spell. If he believed he couldn’t forget, that was a positive sign, wasn’t it?

‘Don’t you have any family left, Mr Sutton?’

‘Some cousins in Stoke. They might get my money when I go, but they won’t get the farm, will they?’

‘No, you’ve already sold the farm.’

Cooper sat alongside him.

‘Your brother died, didn’t he? Derek?’

‘Aye. He’s gone over, has Derek.’

‘That was before you sold the farm, Mr Sutton.’

The old man nodded slowly. ‘We could see he was tappy already by then.’

‘Tappy?’ repeated Cooper.

‘Approaching his end.’

Cooper searched his memory for the word, and came up with an image of a wounded animal going to ground in the woods to die.

‘Sir, did anyone else die at the farm? Women?’

‘Women?’

‘Did some women die?’

Sutton looked at him closely. ‘Are you a Christian?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘A proper Christian?’

‘Yes, sir.’

He genuinely felt it was true. But Cooper hoped he wouldn’t be asked when he last went to church on a Sunday. Like many people he knew, he’d got out of the habit. Weddings, funerals and christenings – that was about it these days. His mother had been the one keen on church attendance, so he and Matt and Claire had always gone to St Aidan’s regularly as children. Sunday school, too. Bible stories and choir practice, Whit walks and visits by the Church Army with their free badges. But he suspected that had been as much because it was the respectable thing to do, rather than on account of any particular devoutness on his mother’s part.

It was probably that factor that led him to be a bit facetious sometimes when other people’s beliefs seemed to be just too extreme.