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The weather was spectacular. Too hot, if anything. There was no sign of rain – or even of the chill mists that usually crept off the sea like pirates and smothered the summer moor under little puddles of winter.

The force helicopter criss-crossed the search area using thermal imaging cameras, and its noise – a distant whirr or an overhead cacophony – became the soundtrack to the operation.

Charles Stourbridge controlled the riders and Reynolds settled for controlling those on foot and in cars.

Rice continued discreetly to check the volunteers against the sex offenders register, and on the second morning they quietly removed a man from the team at Landacre Bridge. Thirty-six-year-old Terry Needles had travelled all the way from Bristol with his flask and his sandwiches and his conviction for downloading child pornography. He spent the next twenty-four hours in a police cell at Minehead. Four hours while the police checked out his disappointingly solid alibis, and another tearful twenty just to remind him of how tentative his grip on freedom really was.

Reynolds had divided eighty-five volunteers into groups of twelve plus one of thirteen – each under the command of a local officer. They covered the seven squares Stourbridge had graciously left them. Progress was slow and sweaty but Reynolds couldn’t help but be impressed by the stamina and determination of the searchers, who provided their own lunches and local knowledge.

Jonas found himself not leading a team that started in Wheddon Cross – the highest village on the moor. The officer whom Reynolds had put in charge was a desk sergeant from the neighbouring Devon & Cornwall force.

‘Jim Courier,’ he told his group. ‘Like the tennis player.’

It dated him; Jonas was only vaguely aware that there had ever been a player of that name. Either way, he was uninterested in Courier. He was more concerned that the Reverend Julian Chard was among the searchers. Without once looking directly at the vicar of St Mary’s, he was aware of his every movement. And soon that movement was in his direction. The Reverend Chard grasped his hand and shook it firmly in both of his, looking deeply into Jonas’s face.

‘So good to see you back, Jonas. How are you?’

Jonas could barely look at him. Not without seeing the face of the Reverend’s father, Lionel, the deep sockets of his dead eyes twin puddles filled with blood. The killer had struck on Jonas’s watch, and yet Lionel Chard’s son was here now, holding his hand and welcoming him back. Forgiving him.

That was his job, of course. He was a man of God; what else could he do?

Jonas knew what he would have done. He mumbled something that apparently satisfied convention, and the Reverend Chard nodded, smiled and patted him on the shoulder as they walked on.

They started out in the hamlet itself – checking sheds and outhouses and coal bunkers – and moved out to the north-west across fields and through farmyards and barns and hay stores and milking sheds. People came out and helped while they were close to their homes, then waved them off and wished them luck as they went – as if they were troops off to war, not a small and increasingly sweaty search party. Jim Courier took off his uniform jacket and slung it over his shoulder and Jonas did the same.

As they headed up into the heather, Jonas squinted into the sun. It seemed like years since he had felt its heat on his face – years since it had seeped through the layers of his skin to warm the very core of his being. It made him think of long-gone summers and of the sour tang of early apples stolen from the gnarled trees up at Springer Farm. It made him think of Lucy – cold and dead and too deep in the soil ever to feel the sun on her face again, however brightly it shone for him.

He had dropped behind the others. He picked up his pace.

The only woman in their group – a slim, outdoorsy brunette who wore proper walking trousers with zip-off legs – offered everyone a piece of chocolate, and people chatted idly as they walked. Whenever Courier got confused by stiles or forks, Jonas put him back on the right course.

As it got warmer, the adrenaline of the morning dissipated, and they hiked doggedly from outbuilding to distant shed, speaking only when it was necessary.

The Reverend Chard was not a fit man or a young man and by lunchtime was plainly beginning to flag. Jonas had a quiet word with their leader, who suggested to the Reverend that he had done enough for one day. The vicar made a token protest and then set off gratefully back to Wheddon Cross for his car and, no doubt, a pint of cold cider at the Rest And Be Thankful.

Jonas watched him go with relief but also some envy. He had started out with the confidence of memory, but over a year of sitting and staring meant his lungs no longer had the capacity to fuel such exertions comfortably, and his legs ached. The sun, which had been so welcome at the start of the day, further sapped his strength, and he felt as hungry and tetchy as a toddler at teatime.