The detective had already taken a quick look through missing persons for the local area. How big a task it was depended on how far into the past you wanted to go, and how large an area you wanted to use. There was the infamous unsolved case of Sally Whitchens, a ten-year-old girl missing since 2005 in Winchester, thirty-two miles west. Of those old enough to have chosen to disappear, there were probably thirty within a fifty-mile radius since 2000. Like most ‘mispers’, there often seemed a family reason: arguments, divorce, bereavement. Many of them were originally from other areas of the UK, three of them foreign nationals. There was nothing that really stood out.

Gillard walked back to his car and changed out of his wellingtons. He then drove back across the meadow and up into the village which, unlike the river valley, was in Hampshire. Parking outside the Anvil Arms, he looked longingly at the faded blackboard, which advertised real ales and home-cooked food. Clipped to the blackboard was a plasticised menu listing a mouth-watering array of dishes, under the heading: ‘Hampshire Young Chef of the Year’. The pandemic lockdown was four months old, and due to end the coming weekend. Like many he was nostalgic for the pre-Covid world.

He gelled his hands, re-fixed his face mask and emerged from the car. The weather was genial, so he took a five-minute stroll through the village. One shop, formerly a post office. Forge Cottage nearby, a nod towards the blacksmith’s it presumably used to be. The distant rumble of the link road reminded him how Rissington Common, probably always an obscure hamlet, was now totally off the beaten track. It wasn’t on the way from anywhere to anywhere else. Even to get to Upper Rissington you now had to go back almost to the main road and drive under the flyover.

A short but broad young man in his twenties emerged from a cottage two doors down from the pub, and laboriously fixed a mask over his nose and mouth. He had the characteristic features of Down’s syndrome, and was towing a skinny dog. On spotting Gillard, he approached.

‘Hello. Did you hear about the dead body down by the willows?’ he asked.

‘I did, and I’m here to investigate.’

‘Are you a policeman?’

‘Yes, I’m a detective. My name is Craig Gillard.’

‘I’m Stewie, and this is Sprocket,’ he said, pointing at the dog, which had the long melancholy face of a whippet.

‘Glad to meet you, Stewie. Hello, Sprocket,’ Gillard said.

‘My mum is Sheila. She has gone to the shops. What’s your favourite game? Mine is Cluedo.’

‘I used to be a Monopoly fan, years ago. So what do you know about this body?’

Stewie winced. ‘It was all broken. Nasty. Was it a man or a lady?’

‘We’re not sure yet.’

‘Was it murder? With the lead piping in the library?’