The semi stood at the far end of a cul-de-sac which branched off the village lane. The media, I noticed, observed a sort of unofficial line of control – never pushing their way beyond the junction. Dominic said that they’d been good about respecting the family’s privacy – so far. I wondered how long that would last.

The front door on the Marstowes’ side was propped open with a brick and from inside I heard children screaming. Dominic knocked a couple of times on the door, tried the bell which didn’t work, and knocked again. He looked at me and shrugged. The screaming got louder. At least one toddler, I thought, and a couple of older kids. One was definitely seriously aggravated about not being allowed out of the house.

Dominic gave up and was about to step inside when a white boy of about nine came charging up the hall and skidded to a halt at the sight of us. He was dressed in a green T-shirt with a cartoon picture of Psy on the front and clutching a pink plastic cricket bat. He stared at Dominic, then at me, bit his lip in consternation and then ran back the way he’d come.

‘Ryan,’ said Dominic. ‘The eldest boy.’

We followed Ryan into the house.

Given the hillbilly front garden, the inside of the house was surprisingly tidy, or at least as tidy as a house with four kids under the age of twelve is likely to get without a full-time professional cleaning staff. I followed Dominic down the short hall and into the kitchen at the back and was introduced to Joanne Marstowe.

She was a small woman with a narrow upturned nose, blue eyes and Midwich Cuckoo-coloured hair. She was slender for someone with four kids. The youngest, Ethan, aged one, was balanced in the crook of one arm. He had the same white-blond hair as his mother and appeared at some point in the recent past to have submerged his face in a bowl of Heinz mashed apple and pork casserole. I could see the open pot on the kitchen table and the high chair with an upturned blue and pink flowered bowl on the eating tray. Ryan had taken up a position behind his mum and now peered cautiously around her body to check we weren’t after him. A third child, who by a process of elimination had to be Mathew, aged seven, whose sandy hair was stuck to his forehead with sweat, sat quietly at the table with the air of a child who had been subjected to more than reasonable punishment as specified by section 58 of the Children’s Act 2004.

‘Hello, Joanne,’ said Dominic.

Joanne glared at him, noticed me and turned back to Dominic.

‘Who the fuck is this?’ she asked.

‘This is Peter,’ said Dominic. ‘He’s going to be working with Allison Cole and you.’

‘Where’re you from?’ she asked me.