She continues. ‘I used to see Hollie and Niamh together all over the place. They didn’t take too much notice of boundaries, those two. But they were harmless.’

I think of what Niamh said about the two of them creeping into private gardens together. ‘Where did they used to go, Mrs Jones? Do you know?’

‘How would I know?’ She glares at me. ‘Ask young Niamh. She’s the only one who could tell you. Wherever Hollie went, Niamh was always right there with her.’

Without knowing how, I’ve struck a nerve. ‘How long have you lived in the village, Mrs Jones?’

‘It’s gone thirty years, twenty of them without my Derek. I’ve seen a few folks come and go, you know.’

‘Have you seen any strangers hanging around, or noticed anything unusual?’ I watch her face for any clues and she smiles.

‘Well, of course. It’s different these days. Folk drive past in their big cars … And the pub is full of outsiders. Even the church … folk only seem to go there on high days and holidays. We used to go every week. Shame.’ She shakes her head.

High days, holidays … and funerals, I can’t help thinking. ‘So life around here has changed?’

She seems to think for a moment. ‘You could say that.’ She speaks quietly. ‘It used to be that when something terrible happened, people would rally round. There was a real sense of community.’

‘And you don’t have that now?’ I feel myself frown.

She looks at me sadly. ‘It hasn’t been like that in a long time.’

*

After what Ida Jones has hinted at about the Hamptons’ financial situation, I pay a visit to Stephanie Hampton’s salon, hoping to talk to her away from her husband. But when I get there, the door is locked and it’s in darkness. Checking the clock in my car, I realise I’ve timed my visit badly, guessing she’s closed for lunch.

Her salon is one of a few businesses arranged in a courtyard of converted farm buildings. From what I can see of the dim interior, it looks as though Stephanie has closed in a hurry. A couple of towels are hung over chairs, and the whole place looks untidy, but it stands to reason that her mind would be on other things after Hollie’s death.

Or would it? If Ida Jones is right, this salon is the only thing keeping the Hamptons afloat. Going back down the steps, I walk along to the next building, glancing at the window display filled with wedding paraphernalia. Above the door, gold letters spell out the shop’s name: Tiger Lily.

I open the door and go inside, taking in the rails of wedding dresses as I’m greeted by a young woman wearing a tape measure slung around her neck. ‘Can I help you?’

‘I was hoping to catch Stephanie next door.’