‘Well, since you’ll be passing our house, you can drop the shopping off on the way,’ she said, handing him the bag.

Father Silver had given James Keith Patel’s address. He found it easily enough and it only took him ten minutes to get there after nipping into his own house and plonking the shopping on the kitchen table.

Patel’s detached cottage was on a cobbled street and backed onto a stream that ran through the southern section of the village. Opposite the property was a spectacular view of the Cumbrian countryside: a wild, dramatic landscape shrouded in a pristine sheet of white.

James had a ready excuse for why he was paying him a visit, and he launched into it as soon the man opened his front door.

‘Hello again, Mr Patel,’ he said. ‘I’ve dropped by to inform you that officers will be looking into the damage done to your mother’s grave. I’ve sent a full report and photographs to headquarters in Kendal, but I’d like to ask you a few quick questions if I may.’

After a couple of beats, Patel said, ‘You’d better come in then. The priest just called to tell me he’s cleaned the headstone. I’ll be popping up there later to see for myself.’

Patel left it to James to close the door and then led the way into a small, untidy living room where two large radiators were belting out oppressive heat. There were no Christmas decorations and a strong smell of tobacco hung heavy in the air.

Patel lowered himself onto one of two threadbare armchairs and gestured for James to sit in the other. James removed his coat before doing so and took out his notebook.

There was more to see of Patel now that he had shed his outdoor gear. He had grey hair and a stocky frame that stretched the black polo sweater he was wearing. He looked pretty healthy despite the arthritis that Father Silver had said affected his knee joints and caused his slight limp.

‘You mentioned earlier that vandals have struck twice before,’ James said. ‘Why do you think they pick on your mother’s grave?’

‘I should have thought that was bloody obvious,’ Patel replied sharply. ‘I’m a figure of hate in this village because I never miss an opportunity to condemn what happened to my mum. The medics told me she might have been alive for several days after she fell down the stairs, but she couldn’t move because she broke so many bones and suffered a serious blow to the head. I dread to think what she went through as she lay there calling for help. But none of the so-called good neighbours bothered to check on her when she didn’t appear. I don’t doubt it was because her skin was a different colour to theirs. Mum was always walking to the shop and tending the back garden. So they must have known that something wasn’t right. And her carer, that moron Janet Dyer, was away that weekend and forgot to arrange for someone else to visit.’