At Audrey’s front door I banged and shouted, and waited before banging again. The street was quiet, the patches of shade under the trees looking inviting from where I stood on the scorched doorstep. I was bending down to peer through the letter box when I heard a car draw up. A door opened and closed, and there was a chatter of voices broadcast over some radio static. When I turned, a young policewoman was coming in through Audrey’s gate. She was in shirtsleeves, with a radio transceiver clipped in her top pocket. I saw the chequered band round her hat and the sun glinting on badges and numbers. Fear stiffened my back as I stood upright. Why were the police here?

‘Good morning,’ the WPC said pleasantly.

‘Is something wrong?’ I asked.

‘Is this your house?’

‘No. No, it isn’t. My son’s … staying here.’

‘I see.’ She was looking at the filthy windows and the debris scattered in the garden. Her radio chattered again. ‘We have had a call from one of the neighbours. Somebody has been seen several times, shouting and hammering at the door. And there is a child on the premises who doesn’t usually live here. Is that right?’

The relief I had briefly felt now shifted into anger. I turned my head to stare back at the shiny windows and padded curtains and trim hedges of Turnmill Street. Self-satisfied, bourgeois, rising-property-values bloody place, I thought, my sympathies suddenly with Audrey. Some busybody had it in for her because her paintwork and ideas about garden maintenance didn’t conform to local standards. ‘That would be my son, yes,’ I said pleasantly.

‘Shall we just have a word with him, then?’

This put me in a difficult position. I could knock on the door, but the policewoman and I might well stand here hoping for a response until the sun fried us both to a crisp. I decided that candour was the best resort. ‘I don’t honestly know about that. He’s being a bit rebellious. He’s a teenager, you see. Well, almost a teenager. He’s decided to stay here with, with …’ My voice trailed away. I realised I didn’t even know Audrey’s surname. ‘A family friend. He’s upset because his fox cub died. And he won’t come out, which is why I have been banging on the door, actually.’ I knew that this sounded unconvincing.

The driver of the panda car was now coming to join his companion. As if to embody the cliché, this one looked even younger, barely older than Jack himself. I could distinctly see the pimples on his jawline. I stood on the doorstep between them and noticed that a couple of passers-by had stopped to watch what was going on.

‘His fox cub,’ repeated the policewoman. ‘Your son is twelve?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Let’s see, shall we?’