Gillard’s original hope that the corpse would be of merely archaeological interest had been dashed. This would now be a resource-intensive case, just at a time when Surrey Police was short-staffed. He emailed Rainy Macintosh and Carl Hoskins, and asked them to attend an inaugural incident room meeting at six p.m. Subject: the murder of Rissington Man by person or persons unknown.

Chapter Eight

When Gillard made his way back to his car he saw the young archaeology volunteer walking down the lane towards him eating something from a ball of white paper. A face mask was slung around her neck.

‘It’s Rowena, isn’t it?’ Gillard asked.

‘Yeah. Got my lunch from the Anvil. Do you want a chip?’ She offered the package to him. The distinctive tang of vinegar was enticing.

‘Thank you, no.’

‘So I understand you’re a copper.’

‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Craig Gillard, from Surrey Police.’

‘Who’s the dead bloke then?’ She indicated with her head towards the river, and resumed eating her lunch.

‘You tell me.’

She waggled her head sideways as if considering the question. ‘I don’t know. But I tell you what I do know.’ She pointed at him with a chip. ‘There’s a prophecy about a killing here. It’s quite famous. Hasn’t Clive told you about it?’

‘What prophecy?’

‘It’s in the church. Come on, I’ll show you.’

Maybe there was something the Anvil’s kitchen was good at. Gillard suffered the torment of watching hot chips and tangy vinegar being consumed for the next few minutes as they walked down towards the overgrown churchyard. Having finished her chips, Rowena screwed up the paper and dropped it into a litter bin in the churchyard, and wiped her fingers down the side of her jeans. She then made her way up to the portico of the church. She pulled open an iron gate which led to a short gloomy passageway and an ancient wooden door. From beneath a rusted umbrella stand she retrieved a cast-iron key the length of her hand. She braced her hand against the church door, fitted the key and, jiggling it carefully, turned it. There was a satisfying clunk of the lock opening.

‘It’s quite a technique,’ she said. ‘There haven’t been any thefts for a while, but we have to be careful. Lead got nicked off the roof five years ago, which I’m sure you know all about.’

‘I don’t, actually,’ Gillard said.