Mum draws breath for long enough to gaze out of the window at the Cotswold-stone buildings. ‘What a stunning place. Strange name. Kind of eerie. I dunno, though, it’s familiar but that could be because it reminds me of those pretty villages in Agatha Raisin. How far away is the nearest town?’

I mentally roll my eyes. Trust her. She’s probably already planning a day out shopping. This village will be too remote for her. ‘Chippenham, seven or eight miles away.’

‘Eight miles. Wow.’ She glances around with a slightly panicked look in her eyes, like a pony that’s on the verge of bolting.

We head through the centre of the village, and as we pass the main square she gasps. ‘What’s that?’ she says, pointing to a cube-shaped stone construction with open sides and a roof with a spire on top. It sits to the edge of the square, where the three main streets converge, and in front of the church. It’s a very striking landmark, with stone steps surrounding all four sides.

‘That’s the market cross,’ says Tom, his face lighting up at his chance to be able to impart a fact. ‘I looked it up when we first moved here. It dates back to the fourteenth century. They’re quite common in market towns and villages, apparently, although I’ve never seen one as lovely as this.’

Mum is frowning at it. ‘I . . . I remember this . . .’

‘Really?’

She blinks. ‘It’s very hazy. But I’ve seen it before. I . . .’ She shakes her head. ‘It’s so frustrating but it’s like the image is there, in my mind very briefly, and a feeling.’ She places a hand on her heart and I can see, from my rearview mirror, that she’s closed her eyes. ‘This feeling . . .’ Her eyes snap open. ‘But then it’s gone.’

‘I read once,’ says Tom, ‘that our memories are forever evolving, so we only remember the version of the memory we last recalled rather than the original event.’

I roll my eyes and laugh. But Mum remains unusually stony-faced, her nose pressed up to the glass, like an expectant but slightly hesitant child. I glance at Tom and he shrugs. I continue up the hill until we reach the rank of twelve properties that’s known as Skelton Place. I pull onto the shingle driveway, which fans out to greet us, relieved that there aren’t any journalists hanging around today. It’s been two weeks since the bodies were discovered so I’m hoping they’ve now moved on to another story.

‘Gosh, the woods are quite bleak, aren’t they?’ says Mum. ‘They encompass the whole village. I feel like I’m in Little Red Riding Hood.’

‘They can be, especially on a dull day,’ I say.