‘Here’s what we know,’ he said, giving Joanne the nod to activate the projector that was linked to his MacBook. An innocuous-looking Instagram account flashed up on the screen. ‘Naomi Bakes Cakes’ was designed in appealing blue and pink pastels, displaying an array of artfully designed baked goods. A ‘Coming Soon!’ image was displayed on the site, along with promises of her delicious wares. He clicked on the picture of the woman who owned the account. Her smile was warm and friendly, her curly brunette hair framing her face. ‘Her name is Naomi Ward, she’s newly married to Edward Ward and they have a daughter, Morgan, aged . . .’ Lloyd clicked off the Instagram account to the Facebook profile of a scowling teen. Her black hair was cut in layers, and she stared through her choppy black fringe. It was a recently uploaded photo, as her hair had been auburn the day before. ‘Sixteen,’ he said, after a pause. ‘Old enough to ask questions.’

‘What age was her mum when she had her? Ten?’ Bambridge replied, as a ripple of murmurs went around the room.

‘She’s her stepmother,’ Lloyd said, devoid of emotion. ‘There’s twenty years between her and her new husband. She’s been saddled with Morgan because her mother’s ill.’

He didn’t have to dig for the information. It was freely available online. A couple of Ed’s fan pages told him the basics, while Morgan’s Facebook account filled him in on the rest.

Mike Humphries, the local vicar, raised a meek hand. An overweight man, he didn’t wear his dog collar to village meetings, favouring his tank top and corduroy trousers. ‘Isn’t it a bit early to be planning a witch hunt? This is all very concerning . . . very concerning indeed.’

Lloyd’s jaw pressed down on his back molars. Initially, Reverend Humphries had taken some persuading to keep a lid on it all. But every man has his price, even the local vicar. When offered what he wanted, Humphries came to terms with their actions, and his veiled justifications soothed his flock’s consciences as he preached from the pulpit. These indirect communications were what kept their faith strong. But what about the next generation – could they be trusted?

Mike’s daughter Dawn was the youngest person there, but when it came to protecting their village she was fully on board. ‘Lloyd never mentioned any witch hunt, Dad, he’s just stating the facts.’

Lloyd threw her an appreciative smile. She was one of the few people in the village he had any real time for.

‘Ooh.’ Janet Finch, his neighbour of thirty years, broke the silence as she peered at the projector screen. ‘She’s one of those emos, isn’t she?’

‘What’s an emo?’ sixty-five-year-old Lisa Stevens said, as if Morgan was some kind of dangerous creature to be avoided at all costs.

‘It means she’s a teenager,’ Lloyd said dismissively.