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‘No. I think he has a genuine chip on his shoulder about your ancestors getting his ancestors’ land. He told me that those turnips attracted bad luck, so perhaps he’s trying to bring some onto your business.’

‘All right, then. We’ll just see where they’re off to,’ Edward said, pulling the van into a lay-by a little further up the road, stopping the engine, then climbing out.

Together, they hurried up the little track, little more than a farm lane, in pursuit of the distant Littleslades.

The old couple had a head start, and Kelly thought they might have lost them when they passed a couple of paths that intersected with the track. Both times, however, Edward squatted down like he thought he was Crocodile Dundee and started poking around in the weeds. One time, he pointed out half a footprint, and the second, he indicated a patch of disturbed stones, the dampness underneath still glistening even though the surrounding stones were dry.

And then at last they came around a tight, bushy corner to see the Littleslades up ahead, just reaching an open lookout area where there were a couple of picnic tables.

Mrs Littleslade was carrying the urn, and now she set it down on a picnic table as Edward and Kelly crouched in the bushes, staying out of sight.

‘Is she going to scatter them up here?’ Edward said. ‘This is old Mark Pilkington’s farm. Pretty sure that’s where his slurry pit used to be. Before he knocked most of his buildings down, he turned part of it into a quad-bike racing track, which is just a little further over the hill. Not really the kind of place to put your ancestors to rest.’

But as they watched, Mrs Littleslade opened the lid of the urn and appeared to be rummaging about inside.

‘What on earth is she doing?’ Edward said.

The old woman withdrew a phone, wiped off some ash, then handed it to Mr Littleslade.

He climbed up on top of the picnic table, held the phone to his ear, and began to speak.

‘Can you hear what he’s saying?’ Kelly hissed.

‘Not a chance,’ Edward said. ‘I’m afraid I’ve been to far too many rock concerts to pick up what they’re saying over this distance. There’s something up with them, though, isn’t there?’

‘Why on earth would they be hiding a phone inside an urn?’ Kelly said.

‘Perhaps it’s a fancy phone case,’ Edward said with a chuckle. ‘The kind you can get off the internet.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Kelly said, as Mr Littleslade began to gesture wildly, as though angry about something.

Then, with one last violent slap of his thigh, he passed the phone back to Mrs Littleslade, who replaced it in the urn.

‘They’re coming back,’ Edward said. ‘We’d better get out of sight.’

‘Why don’t we confront them?’ Kelly said. ‘Right now. Find out what they’re playing at.’

Edward looked at her. ‘We’re not the police, you know,’ he said. ‘Although perhaps we could go to the police. But I thought you were a reporter.’

‘I’m an investigative journalist,’ Kelly said. ‘In training.’

‘Well, how about we do a bit more investigating?’ Edward said.

Kelly was just about to answer when she picked up on the word “we” and felt a sudden warm glow inside.

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Why not?’

‘Let’s get out of here,’ Edward said. ‘We’ll figure out what to do when we get back to the van.’

They hurried back down the path, concerned about being spotted, particularly on the last long straight stretch before the main road.

When they reached the van, they only had a moment to get out of sight before the Littleslades appeared. Edward slammed it into gear and they took off up the road.

‘Where to now?’ he said.

‘I think we need to find out who these people really are,’ Kelly said. ‘And there’s not much internet connection down in Briar Speckles, is there?’

‘Not this time of year,’ Edward said. ‘It’s pretty rubbish at the best of times, but it tends to just go on the blink during the autumn.’