‘. . . such a quiet place but now there’s journalists everywhere and coppers – one came to my door last night asking questions. It was dinner time. Who comes knocking at dinner time? I ask you! This is what happens when youngsters come in and over-develop their houses . . .’ He falters when he notices Lorna. He raises his white, craggy eyebrows at her, but doesn’t continue his tirade. Lorna’s tempted to tell him not to stop on her account but she doesn’t want to make things worse for Saffy. She’s the one who’s got to live with these villagers after all.

The man takes his cup from the guy behind the counter, nods at her without smiling and leaves the café.

‘What can I get you?’ asks the young guy. If he knows who she is he doesn’t let on and she’s grateful. She orders a latte and makes small talk while he’s preparing it. She learns that his name is Seth, he grew up in the village, his aunt used to own the café and that he’s off to do a degree in engineering at Nottingham in October. She’s smiling to herself as she leaves with her precious latte. He’s the first friendly person in the village she’s encountered since she arrived.

As she slows down to sip her coffee she hears someone clearing their throat at her shoulder. She turns to see a man in his late fifties, wearing a checked shirt and jeans. Short, greying hair and narrow eyes that seem to be assessing her for longer than is polite. She stops walking and Snowy plonks himself at her feet.

‘Hi,’ he says, smiling pleasantly. ‘You live at nine Skelton Place, don’t you?’ He has a northern accent and there is something about his posture and tone that screams ex-military.

‘No. I’m just visiting,’ she replies.

‘I’m not from around here either,’ he says, surprising her.

‘Oh. Right.’ Then it occurs to her. ‘Are you a journalist?’

He looks taken aback. ‘Oh, no . . . no. I’m just visiting too. The name’s Glen.’ He holds out a hand and she feels it would be impolite to refuse to shake it.

‘I’m Lorna.’

His handshake is firm. ‘I heard about the bodies up at Skelton Place. Everybody in the village is talking about it.’

‘Yes, I can imagine.’

He grins at her, still holding her hand. She wonders if he’s trying to chat her up. He must be a good fifteen years older than her at least. She supposes he’s quite handsome in an older-man kind of way, although there is a hardness to his face. She retracts her hand.

‘Anyway,’ she says, ‘I need to get back. Nice to meet you, Glen.’

‘Nice to meet you too,’ he says, but he stays where he is.