They had, by now, reached the back of the Plimpton house with its disturbed bins and scattered rubbish. The dogs immediately lost interest in the human element and began to rummage through old takeaway cartons and soggy tea bags. Mrs Plimpton shouted and waved her arms. The dogs ignored her. Parrish could only conclude they must be deaf.

Farrell was waiting for them just inside the gate. He nodded back over his shoulder at a dilapidated wooden structure decorated with an ancient tin bath. Luke’s already rock-bottom opinion of the 20th century plummeted even further.

‘It’s in the shed.’

‘What’s it like?’

‘Pretty much as you’d expect. Primitive. Dangerous. And dead. Completely blown out. Single-use, I reckon. Not a long-term project, anyway. I’ve notified the major,’ he glanced at his watch, ‘and the clean-up crew will be here any minute.’

Parrish nodded.

Farrell looked over his shoulder and innocently enquired, ‘Why have you brought along all these people?’

Parrish gritted his teeth. ‘They brought themselves.’

‘Who are they?’

‘I have no idea. Let’s get him inside.’

They hustled Henry Plimpton through the gate, closing it firmly in the faces of everyone not a Plimpton or a Time Police Officer. Once inside the house, things were a little quieter. Without a by-your-leave to anyone, Farrell shut the dogs in the garden and Mrs Plimpton in the kitchen, and the teenagers gravitated to their rooms of their own accord, much in the way of all teenagers across the universe. Thirty seconds later the music started again.

No one noticed the tiny drone zipping in through the door and taking up position near the light fitting.

Looking around their sitting room, Lockland reckoned she’d never seen such a dispiriting space. There was no art on the walls, which were still painted in builders’ magnolia, even after all these years. There were no family photos, no proud certificates. The curtains at the windows hung in loops. Two scruffy and stained sofas and an armchair were arranged around the walls like furniture in a doctor’s waiting room. A small electric fire stood in an empty fireplace. The clock on the mantle had long since stopped functioning and was now serving as a paperweight for a variety of papers, bills and money-off coupons.

The most important item in the room appeared to be an enormous TV set with an astonishingly small screen. There were no books or magazines of any kind, not even a TV guide. The TV was on. Garish colour flickered and two figures screamed raucous insults at each other across a table. Some sort of soap opera, she concluded, although given the world around them, possibly two prominent public figures discussing issues of national importance on a current affairs programme.

Parrish picked up the remote and muted the TV. That rare commodity – peace – descended upon the Plimpton household.

‘Sit down, please, Mr Plimpton.’