Derek pulled a seat out and placed it at the end of the table before sitting down. About as close as he could to interposing himself between me and Joanne without actually sitting cross-legged on the table. I wondered if he was even aware he’d done it. Joanne asked if he wanted a coffee – he asked for something stronger.

‘Vicky doesn’t approve,’ he told me as Joanne snagged a half-bottle of Bell’s off a suitably child-inaccessible shelf at the top of the cupboard. ‘But by god I need a drink right now.’

He got it in an orange drinking glass with a picture of a happy octopus on it. The Bell’s went firmly and decisively back on the shelf. Derek finished his in two gulps. Inspired, Ethan screwed up his face and started to cry until he was pacified with orange squash.

‘Where’s Andy?’ asked Joanne.

‘He was with a different party,’ said Derek. ‘I think they were down towards Bircher.’ His eyes flicked up to the cupboard where the Bell’s was tucked safely away, towards Joanne, and then back to me.

‘I don’t wish to sound rude,’ he said. ‘But I’d like a word in private with Joanne.’

I glanced at Joanne for confirmation – she gave a slight nod.

‘Of course,’ I said and offered him Ethan just to see what the reaction would be. Derek scooped up the toddler with practised ease and Ethan didn’t seem to have any objections – although he could have been distracted by the orange squash.

I could feel them waiting for me to be gone all the way down the hall and out the front door. I considered doubling back and seeing if I could listen in, but I figured that would have been a little bit too Enid Blyton – even for me.

Rushpool was situated in a side valley that ran roughly north-west to south-east following, I learnt later from an impeccable source, the line of the Rushy Brook – one of the many streams that converged further down the valley with the Ridgemoor Brook before meeting the Lugg at Leominster. Hydraulically speaking, it’s actually more complicated than that. But since I fell asleep during that part of the explanation I can’t inflict it on you. Although it was still early evening the sun had already fallen below the ridge behind the Marstowes’ house in a glare of smoky orange and the village was thrown into cooling shadow. I could hear the pub crowd murmur of the media scrum – still waiting at the entrance to the cul-de-sac – and see the glowing tips of their e-cigarettes and occasional camera flashes. I doubted Nightingale was that keen on me getting my face on the news, so I ducked sideways to guarantee that I was hidden by another box hedge. Then I called DS Cole to let her know I was out of the house.