At the next roundabout he carried on along the Lewes bypass. A few minutes later he drove, on the dual carriageway, down a long hill, with sweeping views of Sussex farmland to the right and the gentle slopes of the South Downs and Firle Beacon in the far distance. Many of the fields, harvested now, were just yellow stubble, with rows of round bales. This was normally one of his favourite Sussex views, but today he was too distracted by his troubled thoughts to appreciate it.

At the roundabout at the bottom of the hill he followed the Reverend Manthorpe’s instructions, turning right almost immediately onto a slip road. He then made a left and pulled up behind an elderly people carrier parked outside a semi-detached Victorian cottage. A small rusted caravan that the retired vicar had told him to look for was propped up on bricks in the driveway.

He rang the doorbell, feeling nervous suddenly, wondering what reaction he was going to get. The old man had invited him over with considerable reluctance in his voice. A dog yapped inside. Moments later the door was opened by a tall man in jeans, battered slippers and a grey cardigan, holding a smouldering pipe in one hand. He had a mane of white hair that flopped over his face, which, although aged, showed that he must have once been strikingly handsome. He was stooped over, holding the collar of an excited Jack Russell in his free hand. ‘Shssshhhh, Jasper!’ he said commandingly to the dog. Then he smiled up at Ollie.

‘Mr Harcourt? Come on in!’

He stepped back, sideways, in the tiny hallway that reeked of tobacco smoke, and the dog jumped up against Ollie’s trouser leg, excitedly wagging its tail.

‘Down, Jasper!’

‘It’s OK, I like dogs,’ Ollie said. ‘He can probably smell our cats.’

‘He’s a little bugger, still trying to train him!’ Manthorpe said, closing the front door. ‘Come on through. Down! Down, Jasper!’

He led Ollie into a cramped, shabby but cosy sitting room, with several logs piled up in an unlit fireplace, a leather couch and two leather armchairs arranged around a wooden chest serving as a coffee table. A large glass ashtray, with a pile of ash, sat on it, and there was a copy of the Daily Telegraph and a local parish magazine beside it.

‘Hope you don’t mind this?’ Manthorpe held up his pipe.

‘Not at all, I love the smell, it reminds me of my grandfather!’

‘Cup of tea? Coffee?’

‘Tea would be great. Builder’s, please, just a touch of milk and no sugar.’

‘Plonk yourself down.’ Manthorpe indicated the sofa.

Ollie settled into it and the dog jumped up beside him and pushed his nose against him. He stroked the animal’s wiry coat while the vicar went out of the room, and looked around. He glanced at a photograph on the mantelpiece of a much younger Manthorpe, in a grey suit and dog collar, arm-in-arm with a pretty, serious-looking, dark-haired woman. On the wall were several framed watercolours of Sussex rural scenes, one very recognizable as the Seven Sisters.

‘My late wife,’ Manthorpe said, coming back into the room some minutes later with a tray on which were two steaming mugs and a plate of digestive biscuits. He set it down on top of the papers. ‘She was a jolly talented painter. Please help yourself.’

Then he sat in an armchair, lounged back, dug a box of matches out of his pocket and relit his pipe. Ollie found the smell of the curling blue smoke took him back to his childhood.

‘It’s very good of you to see me,’ he said.

‘Not at all. To tell you the truth, it’s nice to have company. I’ve been jolly lonely since my wife died.’ He looked at the dog. ‘He seems to have found a friend!’

‘He’s gorgeous,’ Ollie replied, continuing to stroke the animal and struggling to hold him back from his attempts to sniff his crutch.

‘So.’ Manthorpe laid his substantial frame right back in the chair, tilting his head at the ceiling, and drew hard on his pipe. ‘Cold Hill House?’

‘Yes.’

‘Quite an undertaking, I would imagine.’

‘You could say that.’

‘You must have deep pockets.’

‘We’ve only been there a couple of weeks – I’m not sure my pockets are ever going to be deep enough. It’s a serious money pit.’

Manthorpe smiled. ‘Did you ever see that film?’

‘Which film?’

‘The Money Pit. Tom Hanks. It’s very funny.’ He hesitated. ‘But perhaps not to you. Might be a bit off-putting.’ He grinned. ‘So anyway, I don’t imagine you’ve come to touch me for a loan – what can I do for you? You said it was urgent.’ He sucked hard on his pipe again, then blew a perfect smoke ring which rose almost all the way to the ceiling before starting to lose its halo shape.

‘You were in Cold Hill for how long?’

‘Yes – gosh – I spent almost thirty years there. Loved it. Never wanted to be anywhere else.’

‘You’d have known Annie Porter?’

Manthorpe beamed. ‘Annie Porter? What a lovely character!’ He pointed at a tall, very slightly uneven vase, painted with a floral design, on a shelf alongside a row of photographs of three children, and a separate photograph of a golden retriever. ‘My late wife fired that in her kiln. She used to attend Annie’s pottery classes regularly. Annie’s still around is she? Must be knocking on a bit.’

‘She’s in rude health, I’d say.’

‘Remember me to her.’

‘I will indeed.’ Ollie reached for his mug. ‘Do you remember someone else who I think was there during your time: Harry Walters?’

Manthorpe eyed him, wary all of a sudden. ‘Harry Walters? Silver-haired old boy who also smoked a pipe?’

‘That’s him.’

‘I remember him a little. Bit of an oddball – kept himself to himself. He worked up at your place. Poor bugger died in an accident there.’

‘Yes, that’s right, apparently a mechanical digger toppled onto him. What about the O’Hare family? Four of them. They were buried in the churchyard in 1983. Do you remember them?’

‘Yes,’ Manthorpe answered after a short silence. ‘Yes, that was terrible. One of the saddest things I ever had to deal with. Happened not long after I arrived there as the vicar.’

‘What can you tell me about them?’

‘Well, not a lot really, never had time to get to know them.’ He leaned back and drew on his pipe, but it had gone out. He struck another match, sucked hard and blew out another perfect smoke ring. Ollie felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, but ignored it. ‘Johnny O’Hare – if I remember right – was a big shot in the music business. We had the funeral in the church, and requests for songs from artistes he had worked with. Glen Campbell. Diana Ross. Billy J. Kramer. The Dave Clark Five. The Kinks. He was into some area of management – composers or lyricists, something like that.’ The retired vicar’s voice changed, and Ollie could detect something wistful in it. ‘I can tell you, we had a real Who’s Who of rock greats in the church that day. I doubt there’s ever been anything like it before or after. We had Paul McCartney, Ray Davies, Mick Jagger, Lulu – there were police cordons in the village to keep the crowds back.’

‘Amazing!’ Ollie said.

‘Hmmmn, you could say that. I’ll tell you another thing I’ve just remembered. The deceased’s brother – Charlie O’Hare – came to see me a few days before the funeral. He was a little – eccentric might be a polite word for him. He told me his brother had never been much for religion, but he thought it would be nice to have a communion service for the funeral. He said Johnny had always been a bit of a bon viveur and rather than have the traditional communion wine and wafer host, asked me whether we could have champagne and caviar blinis instead – oh, and cigars instead of candles. He wondered if everyone in the church could light up a cigar in his brother’s memory. Apparently he was very fond of cigars.’

Ollie smiled, pensively. Cigars. Did that explain the smell in the attic room? Barker’s sighting?