‘We’re treating it as a crime scene, yes,’ she says, as though I’m incredibly stupid, but she doesn’t offer any further information and I sense it would be fruitless to ask.

‘We’ve only been here a few months,’ I say, feeling the need to explain, just in case this stern police officer thinks we might have had something to do with it, like we’re in the habit of hiding dead bodies in our garden. ‘It might have been here years . . . centuries perhaps . . .’ But the look on her face makes me falter.

PC Price purses her lips together. ‘I’m not at liberty to say anything further for now. The CSI have requested a forensic anthropologist to confirm the bones are human and we will keep you updated.’ I think of the hand that Karl claims he saw. It doesn’t sound like there’s much doubt. There follow a few beats of awkward silence before she goes to leave. Then she pauses, as though suddenly remembering. ‘Oh, and please can you be out of here within the hour.’

We watch her step out into the back garden, into that gruesome world of police forensics, and I fight back tears. Tom reaches for my hand silently, as though he’s lost the ability to offer words of comfort.

And it suddenly hits me that this is really happening. Our dream home, our beautiful cottage, is now a crime scene.

Luckily the Stag and Pheasant in the village has a room for us to stay in and they allow dogs. We turn up with one overnight bag each, which Tom insists on carrying while I take Snowy on his lead.

The landlady, Sandra Owens, regards us questioningly. ‘Aren’t you the new owners of the cottage up at Skelton Place?’ she asks, as we hover in the bar area. We’ve only been in the pub once since moving to Beggars Nook and that was for Sunday lunch last month. We’d been impressed with the tasteful pale green Farrow & Ball-painted walls, the rustic furniture and delicious home-cooked food. It had, apparently, undergone a huge makeover when the Owenses took it over five years ago.

I don’t know what to say. Once the news gets out it will be all over the village.

‘We’ve run into a bit of bother with our build,’ says Tom, pleasantly but noncommittally, ‘so thought it best to move out for a few nights, just until it’s sorted.’

‘Right,’ Sandra says, although she doesn’t look particularly convinced. She’s in her late fifties and attractive with her highlighted bob and elegant wrap-dress. It won’t be long before she finds out the truth but neither of us wants to tell her about it tonight. Fatigue has set in and it’s not even seven o’clock yet, still light. I just want to crawl into bed.