She pushed open the lounge door. There must be something in here that she could write on. The scene was shrouded in a strange half-light. She walked to the bay window and drew back the curtains, narrowly avoiding tripping over a stack of books as she did so. The sunlight flooded in to reveal a room that retained the bones of its Victorian origins; high-ceilinged and still with its picture rail intact. But a cursory coat of white emulsion had failed to disguise the bold brown and orange swirls that chronicled the tastes of long-forgotten residents.

Clare’s eye was drawn to the heavy black marble-effect overmantle that dominated the room. In the middle of it, set between two brass candlesticks, someone had taped an A4-sized colour photograph that appeared to have been torn from a book. The dog-eared photo was badly faded, but Clare could still make out the image. It showed the head and torso of a middle-aged man. His torso appeared to have been hacked away from his lower body and his skin was a decidedly unnatural chestnut hue, looking more like well-worn leather than the skin of even the most enthusiastic self-tanning aficionado. On closer examination the viewer could see that the subject of the photo was sporting a moustache and Clare could clearly make out five o’clock shadow around his chin. And just to one side, poking out from under that chin, was the end of a length of sinew, the garrotte that had helped to hasten his death. But what made the image truly extraordinary was that Clare knew that the man in the photo had been laid to rest the best part of two thousand years ago. It was Lindow Man.

As her eyes adjusted to the bright daylight, Clare could see that between the scatter of old takeaway containers and McDonald’s wrappers, every chair and surface was covered with books. All of them with pieces of paper and Post-it notes sticking out at every angle. But the same words appeared in the titles over and over again: CELTIC, GODS, MYTHS, RITUAL, SACRIFICE, DEATH.

If this was Neil’s homework, my God he’s been doing it thoroughly. No wonder Sadie left him; no woman could put up with this. On the walls, in no apparent order, were taped more images: some printed from the Internet, others ripped from books. There were images of the skeletons of horses, dogs and birds all in pits. Classic Iron Age offerings, every one. And then, as she turned, behind her on the wall she saw a corkboard. On it were three photos. One of each of their three child burials from Bailsgrove and beside them another, this time photocopied, image of Lindow Man. Two of the infant skeletons had a circle of red marker pen ringed round their necks, the third round its head.