Through the windscreen James could see that the crowd of onlookers had grown. So, too, had the number of uniformed officers who were managing the site and the SOCOs moving in and out of Lorna Manning’s house. Some were taking photos while others were on their knees in the front garden searching for clues.

After discussing a few more issues, the detectives got out of the car and went back into the house.

Dr Flint told them she had done all she could do on site and had arranged for the body to be removed. She also promised not to mouth a word about the card found in the victim’s pocket.

‘I just hope you catch the bastard because I don’t want my visits to this village to become a daily event,’ she said with a mirthless grin.

The chief forensic officer explained that his team still had a lot more work to do, but they hadn’t so far come across a murder weapon or evidence to suggest that any of Lorna’s belongings had been stolen. He agreed with James’s theory that the perp had broken into the house through the back door and Lorna had got out of bed and come downstairs to investigate.

James intended to have another look around the house himself, but his phone rang and the call was from a number he didn’t recognise.

‘DI Walker,’ he said.

‘It’s Father Silver here, Detective Walker. Are you able to talk?’

‘Not right now, Father.’

‘It’s just that something else has turned up here, in the churchyard. It relates to Miss Manning’s death and I really think you should come and see it without delay,’ the priest said.

James and DS Stevens were driven to the church in a patrol car. Neither of them knew what to expect, but James was anticipating another bizarre development.

The last couple of days had been like none he had ever experienced. Two brutal murders and a threat to kill that was off the scale in terms of its creepy originality.

He was satisfied now that it was all related and therefore three investigations had merged into one. On that basis, it would hopefully be easy to persuade Tanner and those above him to assign enough people to it.

His mind kept taking him back to the crime scenes and each time he felt his skin go cold.

The blood on the snow and the kitchen floor. The terrible wounds inflicted on each of the victims. The heartless way the two lives had been cut short.

He had attended hundreds of crime scenes while working for the Met in London. He’d seen murder victims who had been stabbed, shot, strangled and battered. But this was different, because it was happening in the small village where he and Annie had just set up home.

Both murders had been committed a short walk from their front door. And they had a connection with the victims. Plus, there was no way they could distance themselves from any of it – because either of them could become the killer’s next victim if he got it into his head that they, too, deserved to die.