‘I met him, if that’s what you’re here to ask. I was appointed just over a year ago so only overlapped a few months with him, but he did attend a couple of village meetings last autumn. He seemed like a nice guy, quite easy-going. Wasn’t his car the one that crashed nearby back in January?

‘Yes, it was. I was wondering if you had witnessed any tension between members of the community, or between families, that kind of thing.’

Cleaver nodded. ‘Well, I’m quite new, but some things are obvious. This is a neglected backwater, as I think you can see. I was surprised when the bishop asked me to try to revive a collection of rural churches, given my background. I thought they would give me some urban wasteland in Liverpool or Leeds,’ he chuckled.

‘Because you spent time in prison?’

‘Yes. And that undoubtedly is part of why you are speaking to me. I do get the police mindset.’ He held up his hands, and for the first time Gillard noticed a faint tracery of tattoos across his knuckles. ‘Now don’t get me wrong, my resentments and insecurities have long ago been burned away by the power of the Lord. I understand that you have to come to talk to me, not just as a preacher but as a man with a criminal record. I have nothing to hide, and if you want to search this house you are free to do so.’

‘That won’t be necessary at this stage,’ Gillard said. ‘I just wondered if you had witnessed or heard about anything that might give us a clue.’

‘I can’t say that I have.’

Cleaver excused himself to go to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Gillard perused bookshelves heavy with well-thumbed paperback literature, from Dickens to Marx, Schopenhauer to Saul Bellow. An electric guitar case was propped up by the lamp standard, and there were a couple of framed black and white photographs of Cleaver himself, naked to the waist, playing at some crowded gig. One of them had caught the beads of perspiration on his brow and well-muscled shoulders, along with one edge of an enormous bird of prey tattoo on his back. He looked every inch a rock star.

The priest returned with a tray laden with two china cups, a teapot and two slices of cake. ‘The cake is courtesy of the ladies of the Women’s Institute,’ he said.

‘Is this house officially church property?’

‘No. It’s rented. Things have changed a bit from the days when every parish vicar had their own rectory, you know. The Church of England is not immune to financial difficulty.’

‘When did you first move in?’

‘Almost exactly a year ago. Why do you ask?’

‘Just curious.’ Gillard was wondering how long the body had been buried by the willows.