Wisely, Luke abandoned the introductions, shouting, ‘We’re looking for Henry Plimpton.’

‘I can’t hear you.’

Since Matthew was grinning quietly behind his leader, Jane leaned forwards and said very quietly, ‘Hello. Is Henry Plimpton here, please?’

The effect was magical.

‘Hang on, love, I can’t hear you.’

She shrieked something over her shoulder, the song ceased abruptly and near silence fell, along with the dogs who paused their vertical perambulations and watched, bright-eyed and tongues lolling.

‘Thank you,’ said Jane, and Matthew smiled brightly, just to annoy his team leader.

Parrish pulled himself together. ‘Madam, good morning. We are with the police.’ He fumbled for his ID.

North sighed. ‘Should have had it ready.’

Ellis sighed. ‘Should have sent someone around the back.’

‘We’re looking for Mr Henry Plimpton.’

At the back of the house, a door slammed.

‘Shit,’ said Parrish, trying to peer over her shoulder.

‘Language,’ said the woman.

North sighed again. ‘All wrong. They’re going to have to chase him down now.’

‘Well, they won’t make that mistake again,’ observed Ellis, topping up his forgotten coffee.

‘He’s bolted,’ shouted Parrish. ‘You two – go around the back and get after him.’ He struggled to elbow his way past the enormous woman and made for the back door. The dogs ceased to regard him as a friend.

‘Ow. Bugger. Get off, will you? Madam, get your dogs under control.’

‘What’s going on?’ enquired a youth, appearing from the kitchen where, judging from the size and shape of him, he must spend a lot of time.

Upstairs, the music started again.

‘Who are you?’ shouted the boy over the Gallagher brothers at their best. ‘What are you doing in our house?’

The dogs were, by now, almost apoplectic.

‘Get out of my house,’ shrieked the woman. ‘Dwayne, call the police.’

‘Madam, I am the police,’ panted Parrish, endeavouring to squeeze himself between the wall and the youth and failing. ‘Get out of my way, will you?’

Something nipped him on the back of his leg. ‘And get these bloody dogs under control before I shoot them.’

The woman shrieked, ‘Monster.’

Another face appeared on the stairs. ‘What’s going on? I can’t hear my music.’

Parrish was privately of the opinion you’d have to be dead not to hear the music and possibly not even then. He re-doubled his efforts to get to the back door, unsure whether the family was actively attempting to prevent his pursuit or just not quite right in the head due to too much brain-rattling music or inhaling too many dog turds.

‘Everyone get out of my way before I arrest you all.’

Someone was beating at his head and shoulders. Resolving never to be without a helmet again, he somehow forced a passage between two hysterical dogs, the enraged housewife, the monolithic son and the whiney teenage daughter, none of whom were happy. The noise levels were ear-bleeding.