The man, who had lank white hair hanging down either side of his face as if a damp mop had been plonked on his head, picked up his pewter tankard and raised it in the air at Jason and Emily, while his wife just scowled.

‘Your table’s not quite ready, sir,’ Beeson said. ‘Can we offer you both – as a tradition to all newcomers to Cold Hill – a drink on the house? A pint of Sussex’s finest – Harvey’s – for you, Mr Danes, perhaps?’

‘Thank you very much. And a dry white wine for my wife.’

‘Pinot Grigio?’

‘Perfect,’ Emily said.

All the seats were taken, so they stood with their drinks a short distance from the bar. ‘Cheers, darling!’ Jason said.

They clinked glasses. Emily sipped, then wrinkled her face.

‘How’s the wine?’ he asked.

‘Lukewarm and horrible.’

‘Want me to change it?’

She shook her head.

Behind them, a loud rural Sussex accent said, ‘What they doing in here, Lester? You letting standards drop?’

‘Shut it, Albert.’

‘I’ll not shut it. They should never have allowed that development. I told Mary, over my dead body would it go through.’

‘Yep, well, you still look pretty much alive to me.’

‘Bah! Scandalous. A blooming housing estate, ruined the whole village, that’s what it has. He’s that painter fellow?’

Jason and Emily, hearing him clearly, exchanged a smile.

‘Probably does nudes and all,’ he continued.

‘I could paint a portrait of you in the nude, if you’d like!’ Jason called out.

‘Jason!’ Emily hissed.

The old farmer stared at him again. Then he broke into a near-toothless smirk. ‘Paint me to look like James Bond, eh?’

‘Superman, if you’d like – Albert, is it?’ Jason said.

‘Albert Fears.’ The old guy supped his pint, then set it down on the bar top. ‘Seen her yet?’ he said, suddenly, still staring at him.

‘Seen what?’ Jason responded, aware of Emily frowning.

The old man smirked again. Two yellowed stumps in a mouth of bare gums. ‘They’re all around, still. You can’t get rid of ’em like that, you know. It’s not about bricks and mortar, old or new.’ He winked and turned back to his tankard, lifting and supping it again.

‘Who is around?’ Jason asked. ‘What do you mean, they’re all around? Who?’

Albert Fears gave him a piercing look. ‘They’re around to those what can see them. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?’

‘No, I’ve no idea, I’m sorry.’ He turned to Emily, who was looking puzzled.

‘Why don’t you tell ’em, Harry?’ He turned to the equally ancient, wiry man next to him, who had been sitting in silence, pint glass in front of him, holding an unlit briar pipe. A stout, rough-hewn stick was propped against the bar beside him.

Taking his own time, the man pivoted on his stool. He wore a baggy shirt with a red and white spotted cravat, grey trousers and ancient walking boots. His white hair was styled in an old-fashioned, boyish quiff, and he sported a goatee beard. Observing Jason and Emily through sad, rheumy eyes, he said, ‘I used to drive the digger.’