‘He does, guv. I’ve already met him, and that’s actually a good call.’

‘Do you need his phone number?’

‘He gave it to me. I was planning to ring him so that we can arrange to have a drink together.’

‘I’m sure he’ll know everything there is to know about the village and you can get him to dish the dirt on his friends and neighbours. Hopefully he’ll know of anyone who has form or a screw loose in the head.’

Kirkby Abbey was much busier than usual because of the monthly farmers’ market. About twenty small covered stalls were crammed into the village square, everything on sale locally grown, produced or caught, including meats, cheeses, breads, vegetables, beers, eggs, fish and cakes.

Villagers were mixing with visitors, and it appeared to James as though everyone was immersed in the season of goodwill. In the centre of the square stood a large Christmas tree adorned with bright coloured lights and surrounded by a fence about two feet high.

Above the village, the wind-blown clouds had taken on weight and mass, and it had become shockingly cold. People were wrapped up in heavy coats and scarves, and breath formed in front of their faces.

The general store was just off the square and was part of a traditional limestone terrace. It stocked most of what the village needed to be self-sufficient, and also doubled up as the post office.

A wheelchair ramp was attached to the front and was used mainly by the woman who ran the store with her husband.

Maeve King had been paralysed following a stroke three years ago but continued to work behind the counter as often as she could. Peter King put in most of the hours these days, with the help of a part-time assistant.

He was the one who was working today, but before approaching him, James headed for the display of Christmas-related products at the opposite end of the store. It contained wrapping paper, decorations, festive ornaments, plus a wide range of cards. James found what he was looking for as soon as he started sifting through them.

The same Twelve Days of Christmas cards that had been delivered to his home and the church were here in packs of ten and there were two packs left. He picked one up and took it to the counter.

King was a florid-faced man in his sixties with fleshy pink lips and hair the colour of sea foam. He recognised James and beamed a smile at him.

‘How are you today, Detective Walker?’ he asked.

‘I’m fine, thank you,’ James said, placing the cards on the counter. ‘Is your wife not with you today?’

King shook his head. ‘She doesn’t like to venture out if it’s too cold. But a friend’s spending the day with her so she’s making the most of it.’ He picked up the cards to check the price. ‘You’ve made a good choice with these. It’s such an eye-catching design, and they’ve proved very popular.’