‘Oh, yes?’ The woman narrowed her eyes at me, adjusting the paper crown sitting on her black curls. ‘We were trying to see if she was okay,’ I said, stepping closer. ‘That’s all. I’ve called several times wishing her a merry Christmas and she didn’t answer.’

‘Well, maybe that’s because she’s gone out,’ the woman replied.

‘Has she gone out?’

‘We’re hardly going to tell you that, are we?’ Dale retorted. ‘Skulking about on Christmas Day. Prime time for burglaries. I saw it on the news the other night. If you’re targeting a helpless old woman, then I’ll—’

‘Hang on a minute!’ his mum interrupted, her eyes growing wide. ‘Speaking of news, I recognise you now. You’re that weather woman! The one who reads out all the questions people send in. Begins with a b…’

‘Bea!’ the man replied.

‘Yes, I said it began with a b, didn’t I?’

‘Bea Armstrong,’ I said.

‘Yes! Bea Armstrong! Well, why didn’t you say?’ The woman stuck her hands on her hips.

‘Just ‘cos she’s on TV doesn’t mean she’s not robbing anything.’

‘Oh, shut up, Dale. Get inside and check on the spuds. While you’re at it tell the others that the woman from the telly’s here. Bring Shannon’s phone, with the good camera.’

‘Look, it is lovely to meet you but we’re late for our own family dinner, and we really just want to check if Mrs Lewinski is okay. Did you say she’d gone out?’

‘Said she might have done. I thought I saw a car pull up and her disappear off a few hours ago, but it could have been anything or anyone, really. We should probably call the police to be sure.’

‘You don’t have a key?’ Henry asked.

‘Ooh, who’s this, then?’ The woman straightened up, patting her hair so that the crown fell off. ‘Your fella, is it?’

‘No. It’s just a friend. Do you have a key?’

‘Well, that’s a shame. Why wouldn’t you want a lovely looking lad like that?’

Glancing over at Henry, his navy-blue beanie bringing out the shine in his eyes, I couldn’t actually think of any good reason. But before I’d managed to come up with a more appropriate answer, their back yard was full of people, all insistent on introducing themselves, while handing out glasses of Prosecco and bowls of nibbles. There were four generations of Joneses ranging from eight months old to ninety, and every one of them wanted a selfie.

‘Eh, Beano!’ one of the men called, knocking on the window of the next house along. ‘That woman from the telly’s here. The weather one. Bea Whatsername.’