The study had been devastated. Madeleine’s laptop lay in flinders, half-buried beneath a carpet of shredded paper, torn leather binding and broken boards. Had the destruction been inspired by religious hatred, or the fear that something in the room might yield information? She’d have to talk to Madeleine when the vicar was up to the conversation. Then Ellie remembered the papers in her jacket’s inner pocket, and realised she mightn’t have to.

There was another faint whimper.

“Hello?” Ellie looked around the room. The ruined shelves, the battered desk. There was an old cupboard in the corner. She put a hand to her baton, just in case, then opened the door.

She jumped back, fumbling for the weapon, as the little Bedlington unleashed a volley of barks at her, crouching with his back arched, head down and teeth bared.

“Reuben?” Ellie took her hand from the baton. “Reuben? Hey, Reuben.” He growled, but less fiercely, and Ellie extended her other hand towards him. Maybe he’d recognise her scent, if she didn’t stink too badly of smoke. He likes you, Madeleine had said, yesterday afternoon and an eternity ago.

Reuben’s snarls subsided, either because he recognised Ellie or just realised she wasn’t one of the creatures – although from what Madeleine had said the human species in general hadn’t given the dog much reason to like them either. He nosed forward, sniffed at Ellie’s hand, then licked her fingers. She knelt and petted him.

A white and tan bundle lay in the corner of the cupboard. Ellie leant past Reuben to touch its short, smooth fur and cold pelt, then lifted the small shape out. It was the little Jack Russell: Snappy, Scrappy, whatever he’d been called. His head lolled, like the Labrador’s; this time the skull was misshapen too, obviously crushed. Ellie couldn’t look at it; it made her feel sick.

She carried the Jack Russell out to the landing and laid him beside Shona on his left side, concealing the worst of the damage to his head. She should go back into the study and look for clues, but couldn’t: the weariness she’d felt in the churchyard, the sorrow she’d experienced on finding Shona, they all came back, harder than before, and she sank down at the top of the stairs. She looked at the two dogs. One so big; one so small. Bastards. Ellie realised she was crying.

Not just for the dogs, although that was bad enough: for Tom Graham, and yes, for Thelma too; for Bert Annable; Marzena Stasiolek and her children; Pastor Matt; Joda and Barbara; Grant and Sally; Richard, for whom she had no second name. Maybe her own Richard, too; she’d cried for him often enough in the past but there were always more to shed. And so many others.