I wish Tom was here. I don’t feel comfortable dealing with the builders while he’s at work: they constantly ask questions, expecting me to make decisions I’m worried will be wrong, and I’ve never been very authoritarian. At twenty-four Tom and I are only three years out of university. All of this – the move from the flat in Croydon to Beggars Nook, a quaint village in the Cotswolds, and the cottage with views of the woods – has been so unexpected. A surprise gift.

Jonty leads me to the back garden. Before the builders came it had looked idyllic with the mature shrubbery, the honeysuckle snaked around the trellises and the rockery in the corner filled with velvety pansies in a burst of pinks and lilacs. Now there is an ugly orange digger surrounded by a huge mound of unearthed soil. The other two builders – Darren, mid-thirties with a hipster beard, who, by his confident stance, is the boss, and Karl, around my age and as stocky as a rugby player – stare down at the hole they’ve made in the ground, hands on hips, their heavy boots sinking into the soil. They whip their heads up in perfect synchrony when I approach. They’re wearing matching shocked expressions, but Karl’s eyes are flashing with something akin to excitement. I follow his gaze and notice a glint of ivory among the soil, protruding like broken china. Instinctively I reach down and grab hold of Snowy’s collar to prevent him from darting into the hole.

‘While we were digging we found . . . something,’ says Darren, folding his arms across his dirt-streaked T-shirt.

‘What is it?’ Snowy strains against my hand and I tighten my grip.

‘Remains.’ Darren’s expression is grim.

‘Like . . . an animal?’ I ask. Darren and the others exchange a look.

Karl steps forwards confidently, almost gleefully, kicking up dust from the ground as he does so. ‘It looks like a hand . . .’

I step back in horror. ‘So you’re saying . . . they’re human?’

Darren regards me with sympathy. ‘I think so. You’d better call the police.’

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