Ben and Wolf crept inside the house. The side entrance led through to a boot room with a Belfast sink unit, wicker hampers on shelves and various country attire hanging from wall hooks. As Wolf had predicted, there was no sign of any doggy paraphernalia like leads or bedding. Ben was just as glad that they wouldn’t have to deal with Fido.

Knowing the layout of the place, Wolf led the way from the boot room through a scullery and into a handsome country kitchen, which reminded Ben of the one at Le Val with its slate flagstone floor, range cooker and a broad oak table. He noticed the well-stocked wine rack and the bottles of good whisky on the side. Anthony Abbott seemed to have pretty good taste, for a lunatic cult member. From the kitchen doorway they could see into an entrance hall. The house was quiet and felt very still, the only sounds the faint strains of the classical music wafting down from upstairs and the sonorous ticking of a grandfather clock in the hallway.

Ben was expecting to find the house’s occupant upstairs in his study, where the music was coming from. But as they stepped from the kitchen into the hallway, they found him sprawled face-down on the floor. A pool of blood had spread over the parquet, gleaming in the light from the front door’s leaded window panes.

Ben went over to the body, knowing even before he got there that they wouldn’t be getting much out of Anthony Abbott any time soon. Someone had caved the back of his head in with a heavy blunt instrument like a bat or metal pipe. And as Ben turned him over, he saw that the attacker hadn’t stopped there. Judging by the mangled mess of Abbott’s face, he’d been on the receiving end of at least five or six brutal blows. His nose was shattered, his left eye was completely ruptured and his jawbone was hanging by little more than a flap of skin. The assault had been swift and savage.

‘He’s fucked,’ Wolf said.

Crouched by the body, Ben pressed two fingers to Abbott’s neck. He wasn’t searching for a pulse. The skin was still warm to the touch. Abbott had been dead for no more than just a few minutes. Ben checked the time. 12.06 p.m. If he and Wolf had arrived a few minutes earlier on the scene, they might have been able to get Abbott away to safety before the assassin struck. Not because Ben had any sympathy for the dead man, but because everything had depended on finding him alive and capable of giving up what he knew. That chance was gone now.

Ben got to his feet and signalled to Wolf that they should search room to room in case whoever had killed Abbott might still be lurking in the house.