To fill in the blanks it was quicker and easier to search the archives of the local papers, some of which were online, than to make formal requests for the release of paper documents by Hampshire Constabulary dating back to its investigations in 1982. The newspapers showed that Henry Willow, a local farmer, was reported missing in March 1981. After an extensive police search, his body was found in June, buried in a pre-existing grave in the medieval section of the cemetery at St Crispin’s church in Rissington Common. Several of the newspapers reported that the body was considered to be in very poor condition, making identification almost impossible. This was of course in the days before DNA testing, but the victim was eventually identified through dental records. A forensic source quoted anonymously by one of the papers made mention of ‘unusual soil conditions’ in the area which contributed to a rapid transformation of bodily tissue to a ‘waxy substance similar in texture to soap’. That was exactly the same process which has been observed in the body that had been found by the excavator. Henry Willow’s corpse had turned into adipocere.

It was time to interview Mr Tickett.

It was with some trepidation that Gillard approached the yard of CJT Contracting (Hants) Ltd. Even as the detective approached, the two boisterous dobermans bounded into view, snarling and barking. The chain on the gates was unlocked, but a hefty bolt secured them. A sign on the gate asked visitors to ring a mobile phone number and wait to be shown in. Gillard did so, and left a message. It was a couple of minutes before there was any sign of activity, a masculine bellow from somewhere back in the yard, which had the dogs lying down, looking back towards their master. ‘It’s safe to come in now,’ the voice said.

Far from convinced, Gillard reached through the fence, slid the bolt and pushed open the chain link gate. As calmly as he could, he walked between the two guard dogs, which eyed him balefully. A low warning growl emanated from one of the creatures, which clearly had the detective on notice. Fifty yards into the site, Gillard caught sight of an imposing silver-haired man standing on the steps of a large static caravan, hands on hips. It was the same man he’d seen in the BMW two days ago. To get to him, Gillard walked between piles of discarded tractor and truck tyres, stacks of wooden pallets, rusting oil drums and heaps of reclaimed timbers.