The inspector cut me off. ‘Miss Browne, later today I shall send an officer to your address to take your statement but in the meantime, I think you should go home.’ As I began to protest, he raised a hand, silencing me. ‘I’m not happy about you driving at the moment, you’ve had a shock. I can arrange for my constable to take you, or you can call a friend, if you’d prefer.’

‘I’d prefer,’ I told him bluntly and phoned Ricky and Morris.

They were only too happy to drive over and gawp at the police cars and the aliens in white suits going about their business. I rode home with Morris in the comfort of their old Saab, heater on full blast, whilst Ricky followed in my van, grumbling all the way.

‘That bloody thing’s never going to get through another MOT,’ he informed me as we got out at the end of our journey, and slammed the door.

We were at their house, not mine. I held out my hand for my keys but Ricky shook his head and put them in his pocket. ‘Not on your life, kiddo! You’re not going home before you’ve had a stiff drink and filled me in all the juicy details I missed while you were in the Saab with Morris.’

‘Unless you’d rather have a cup of tea, Juno,’ Morris offered, as he opened the front door.

‘No, a stiff drink will be fine.’

‘You sort it out, then,’ he told Ricky, ‘while I run her a bath.’ He gazed at me mournfully. ‘We really ought to get you into some dry clothes.’

Morris’s presence was always reassuring, and I’d relaxed a little in the car, but it was as I lazed in a deep bath of exotically scented bubbles, my second glass of brandy placed on the corner of the bath, that gradually my physical and mental numbness started to ebb away. I began to feel more myself.

There was a loud knock, the bathroom door opened a few inches and a hand appeared brandishing a coat hanger on which hung a silky, peach-coloured dressing gown. ‘There’s this one,’ Ricky’s voice announced from behind the woodwork. ‘It’s a Dior original. Di Davies wore it in Present Laughter or …’ the dressing gown disappeared momentarily and was replaced by a heavier green one, ‘there’s this if you’d rather go comfy than glam. It’s a bit more Celia Johnson.’

‘Who’s Celia Johnson?’ I asked and he tutted in exasperation. ‘I’ll have the green one!’ I called out hastily. I didn’t feel up to a Dior original.