“Yeah. She’s very well up on the esoteric stuff. Bit of a hobby of hers. Odd one for a Christian, if you ask me –” Matt coughed as he registered that Ellie hadn’t and didn’t plan to.

“Thanks.” Ellie put the phone in her pocket. “Cheers for your help today, Matt. It’s appreciated.”

“Glad to be of assistance. Any word on Joda and Barbara?”

“No. Sorry.”

“I’ll pray for them. How’s Charlotte?”

“Dead to the world, last I saw. Milly gave her something to help her sleep.”

“’Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care’,” sighed Matt. “Sorry. Shakespeare. Theatre’s always been something of a passion of mine. Used to want to be an actor, you know, when I was younger. I suppose some would say that this is theatre of a kind.”

Ellie had no idea what sort of reply to that he expected, so she said nothing.

“I’ve been trying to decide if I should visit Charlotte. Perhaps when she’s recovered. Or maybe now. Prayer can help, sometimes.”

“See what Milly says.” Ellie knew her friend would always put her patients first, Pastor or no Pastor. “You got your phone?”

“Of course. Not that it’s much good at the moment.”

“If she wakes up and starts talking while you’re there, make sure you get it out and start recording. Need all the info we can get right now.”

If police work taught you anything, it was that most people were creatures of habit; rituals and patterns offered comfort and continuity in a world increasingly devoid of either. Madeleine Lowe was no exception: each afternoon, she allowed herself a short break from her pastoral duties, and whatever the weather made her way to the Grove Inn.

Unlike the Waggoner’s Rest, which had been taken over by Wetherspoons a few years earlier and boasted the same soulless open-plan décor of every Wetherspoons the length and breadth of the land, the Grove was a family pub dating back to Elizabethan times – the oldest building in Barsall, in fact. Heavy oak beams held up the low ceiling – thank God you couldn’t smoke in pubs now or the air would have been suffocating – and, as in the Bell, there was a real log fire in the grate. Sally Cupit, the barmaid, smiled and nodded at Ellie as she walked in; no one else took much notice. The few drinkers there, mostly older men, seemed almost as somnolent as the dogs snoozing at their feet; another reason Ellie preferred it to the Waggoner’s. She’d long been mulling getting a dog herself. God knew she’d enjoy the companionship, especially of a creature that offered unconditional affection – try getting that from a man – but her being single and working a copper’s hours would have meant the poor beast spending most of its time alone, which didn’t strike Ellie as fair.