‘I’ll put a few feelers out, see if we can get to the bottom of what’s going on there,’ Sara Henshaw said. Sara was a young DC who’d initially made her mark as the community liaison officer for Oakham. She’d lived in the town her whole life, and her innovative and engaging use of the Oakham Community Policing Team’s social media account had drawn plaudits both locally and beyond. Caroline knew Sara would be key to getting under the fabric of what had led to Roger Clifton’s death.

‘Actually, Sara, can you put out a call for witnesses? Social media, local radio, the lot. There’s no way we’ve got the staff numbers for door-to-door just yet, so we need to get whatever we can.’

Sara nodded and wrote something down on her notepad. ‘To be honest, no-one lives round Normanton anyway, so door-to-door enquiries wouldn’t be much use. I’ll speak to the staff at the Normanton Park Hotel — that’s just next door. Other than that, by the time you see a residential property you’re in Edith Weston.’

‘Alright. See if there’s any registered CCTV in the area, too. The hotel’s probably a good bet. Try the fishing lodge as well, and any other business premises round there. If that doesn’t bring anything up, look at residential. Might be worth a wander down the main road in Edith Weston. Might be someone who’s got a camera pointing at the street and recording in higher resolution than a postage stamp. Unlikely, but worth a shot.’

‘Boss, I think we’ve probably got to assume it was dark when the body was put there,’ Dexter said. ‘It’s wide open down there. The church can be seen from the North Shore pretty easily. If you’ve got a pair of binoculars, you can even get a clear view from Egleton. And then there’s pretty much the entire of the Hambleton peninsula.’

Rutland Water was more than three thousand acres in size and shaped like a horseshoe, the village of Upper Hambleton standing proudly on the peninsula, accessible only from the west, along a service road which met the A606 on the outskirts of Oakham. Although the tip of the Hambleton peninsula was barely five hundred metres from Normanton Church, getting there via dry land meant an almost eleven-mile, twenty-minute drive back along the peninsula and around the outside of Rutland Water.

‘If it was dark,’ Dexter continued, ‘someone in the know could drive pretty much right up to the church. It’s pitch black down there at night.’

‘If that’s the case, we’re looking at someone involved with the church or the upkeep of the area, because I’m told the gates are locked up at night.’