She takes his dismay with good grace. ‘You could say that.’ She turns to Freya. ‘Tone-deaf, this one,’ she adds, and Freya laughs. ‘Spent most of his time gazing out of the window at the football field. Who could have guessed you’d come here on police business?’ Robin ignores the warning glance from Freya; he knows he’s pushed the boundaries of the truth. ‘I have everything you need. Come through.’

They’re shown into a small back-room. Every wall is lined with shelves and piled high with books. Teetering stacks rest on the floor. In the middle of it is a small table, with a large black contraption on top.

‘So, the machine’s here,’ Mrs French says. She flips a switch on the side and the screen jumps into life. ‘You know how to work it, right?’ Robin nods. ‘And microfiche here. I’ve requested all records from the coroner’s court starting from the summer of 1992. Could you be more specific than that? I could help.’

‘No, that’s fine. This is fantastic, thank you.’ Robin’s feeling cagey about the reason for their visit. He knows that village gossip is fast to make its rounds and has no wish to become a part of it.

‘A cup of tea, then?’

‘Yes, please.’

As Mrs French bustles off to make the tea, Robin and Freya sit down at the machine.

‘So, how does this work?’ Freya asks, and Robin blinks at her.

‘You’ve never used one of these?’

‘Not for a while, no. I’m a bit younger than you, you know.’

Robin rolls his eyes. ‘So, microfiche is basically pages of a document, but shrunk down in size. And this machine magnifies them.’

Freya opens the large books, where the microfiche have been neatly filed away in rows. She pulls one of the fragile plastic pages out and holds it up to the light. Robin can see the miniature images in black and white. She puts it back and runs her fingers across the dates.

‘So what are we looking for?’

‘Start with July and we’ll go from there.’

‘Robin,’ Freya says. ‘There must have been hundreds of deaths passing through the courts. We can’t possibly look through all these pages.’

Mrs French returns with the tea, and Freya gives Robin a cheeky smile.

‘Mrs French?’

‘Yes, honey?’

‘Do you remember a boy dying? An incident at a Scout camp, maybe around summer 1992?’

Mrs French’s hands go to her chest. ‘Oh yes, such a tragic accident. Jacob Fraser.’ She pauses. ‘Is that what you’re looking into?’

‘Yes,’ Freya confirms. ‘But between you and me, of course. Official police business,’ she adds in a low whisper.

‘You’ll need August then.’ Mrs French bends down and selects the right section among the heavy books. ‘The bank holiday weekend. Scout camp was always the last week in August, before the schools went back. Not that that poor boy did, of course.’