Gillard’s ears pricked up at the sound of shoes being removed, cupboard doors clicking, and the light tread of feet on the staircase. He had recognised the voice, and his eyes switched back to those of the vicar with a question in them. The Rev Matt Cleaver clearly understood what the detective was asking of him. ‘We’re in a work bubble together, over the various finds that have been made in the churchyard. All the documentation is stored upstairs.’

‘I see,’ said Gillard, dubiously. The voice he had heard was Rowena Willow’s, a girl of sixteen, who seemed very much at home in this house, apparently with her own key and the easy familiarity that comes with such a possession.

Cleaver smiled at Gillard, seeming to sense his suspicion. ‘Rowena is also my cleaner, which is why she has a key.’

‘Cleaning on a Sunday. That’s a great service.’ Gillard couldn’t hear any banging or clattering upstairs. ‘And very quiet, too.’

‘Look, I only have one passion these days, detective chief inspector, and that is for the service of our Lord.’

The detective said nothing, but nodded. Cleaver seemed to believe his own words, and despite himself Gillard found he believed him. It was time to escape the aura of this convincing man. He stood to leave.

When Gillard emerged from the house, he could see Sheila Ransome in the street in conversation with two of the other elderly ladies. ‘Mrs Ransome, could I perhaps have a word with you in private?’

She agreed with alacrity. ‘I think it would be best if we sat in my garden, where we can keep a good distance.’ She led the detective down to a cottage just three doors up from where the Rev Cleaver lived. She clicked open the latch on a small side door, which took them both through a low passageway in the terraced row and into a back garden. There were two apple trees, and between them a small wrought iron garden table and two matching chairs. She indicated that Gillard should sit down, and he picked up one of the chairs and set it back a few feet.

‘I do hope you’ve come to ask me about the criminal acts committed by Aqua Western,’ she said.

‘Not directly, and neither am I interested in the criminal acts apparently committed by you when you glued yourself to the doors of the company’s London headquarters.’

‘Detective chief inspector, when I choose a task, I do tend to stick with it,’ she said with a smile.

‘So I hear. I want to ask you about Mr Blanchard, whom I believe you know.’

‘He’s dead, isn’t he? Wasn’t that his body that you discovered?’