‘The investigation? Slowly, I suppose.’ Cleaver had dazzling blue eyes and a piratical countenance, further enhanced by the profusion of black hair visible above the top opened button of his shirt. ‘I understand you’re the vicar here?’

‘Well, I’ve got half a dozen under-used rural churches in which I conduct services on a rota. Congregations aren’t what they were, as I’m sure you know.’ He turned to Rowena, whose eyes hadn’t left his face since his appearance. ‘I was on my way for some murderous fun with Sheila, Callum, and Stewie, do you want to join in?’

‘Definitely. I spent all morning squatting down at the dig, so it’ll be good to sit on a chair.’

Cleaver turned to Gillard. ‘Our regular garden game of Cluedo, with full social distancing,’ he said with a conspiratorial smile. ‘Pastoral duties can be fun.’

‘If you find out who did it be sure to let me know,’ Gillard said.

Gillard got back to Mount Browne at half past five. As he was pulling into the car park, he got a call from Hertfordshire Police to say that an officer had visited Angela Blanchard in Hemel Hempstead to seek a DNA sample. It hadn’t been straightforward. Ozzy Blanchard had taken his toothbrush and most personal items when he had left back in January. Mrs Blanchard was apparently an efficient housewife and now burned with the indignation of the abandoned woman. She had washed, packed away or disposed of many of his clothes to a charity shop. She wanted him out of her life.

Gillard was annoyed that no one at Hampshire Police had at least alerted her to the possibility that personal items should be retained in case a DNA check was needed. The visiting officer had taken samples from Blanchard’s favourite chair and some footwear. There seemed a reasonable chance of a result. The only other route to an elimination sample, tracking down the wrecked car, seemed even more of a long shot.

Armed with this limited information, Gillard gathered together his team for what turned out to be one of the emptiest incident room meetings of his career. Detective constables Carl Hoskins and Rainy Macintosh sat at opposite ends of one of the larger conference rooms, staring at a whiteboard and laptop projector. They had coffee and a few biscuits, but little inspiration.

‘Why are we even looking at this?’ Hoskins asked, as he watched Gillard writing down various details of the Anglo-Saxon murder weapon alongside the more modern finds of pens, wedding ring and comb.