Early one evening in February 1994, I was chopping onions for a chicken curry and singing along to the radio. The news came on, with an item about a search for human remains at a house in Gloucester. I felt a fleeting pang of sympathy for the victim before reaching into the fridge for the garlic.

The newsreader continued: ‘Police have confirmed that Frederick West, aged 52, and his 40-year-old wife Rosemary, of 25 Cromwell Street, have been arrested on suspicion of multiple murders.’