I drove slowly past the chapel for a second time, looking intently at the properties on either side, some of them somewhat larger than the rest of the cottages.

But, just like where Valance lived in Park Edge in Harrogate, this was net-curtain-twitching territory, where every unrecognised car, especially one moving slowly with the occupants staring out of the side windows, would soon be clocked by someone from the local Neighbourhood Watch.

‘I wonder how we could find out who lives in these houses,’ I said. ‘But I’m not very keen on simply knocking on their front doors and asking them who they are. If one of them turns out to be Valance’s son or daughter, or even just a friend of his, it would be sure to get back to him that we’d been here snooping around.’

‘We could always ask at the village post office,’ Chico said, pointing ahead.

I drove past it. OPEN 9 AM TO 1 PM, MONDAY TO WEDNESDAY, said a notice in the window. True, it was only Tuesday, but it was already well past one o’clock.

‘How about the pub?’ Chico said. ‘Publicans always know their locals’ business.’

‘You might be right,’ I said. ‘But in my experience, people from round here keep what they know to themselves, rather than telling anything to strangers, especially strangers from “daan saaf” like you and me. Trust me, folks from these parts are different, totally different. It’s almost as if they believe they live in a separate country from the rest of England—the Independent Republic of Yorkshire.’

He laughed, but I knew I was right. Most Yorkshiremen would close ranks behind any other Yorkshireman, even if they suspected he was doing something wrong.

But we tried nevertheless, although not at the pub.

Chico spotted a woman in a tweed coat walking a black Labrador on the village green, so, while I kept driving on out of the village, he jumped out of the Skoda, and he took Rosie with him.

‘Fellow dog owners,’ he said with a smile. ‘An even stronger bond than that of Yorkshire. Come back for me in twenty minutes.’

‘Useless,’ Chico said, getting back into the Skoda when I returned twenty minutes later. ‘Silly old bat doesn’t even know what day of the week it is.’

‘What did she say?’ I asked.

‘I asked her if she knew the names of the people who live in the houses near the chapel. She then said, quite seriously, that the prime minister lives in one of them. I pointed out that the prime minister lives in London, at 10 Downing Street, but she said that was a lie because he definitely lived here. She even told me she’d met him. Stupid old woman. Totally bleedin’ senile, if you ask me. Didn’t even know what year it is when I asked her. Kept sayin’ we should be gettin’ ready for war with some bloke called Kaiser or somethin’.’