She hesitated, and then picked up her baton. There was no point being unprepared. Hefting it, she climbed out of the car slowly. She tried to look everywhere as she walked, letting nothing escape her notice. But it was hard to make anything out in the tiny front garden. She was suddenly aware that it was riddled with hiding places. Behind the conifer. Round the corner of the house. By the side gate …

God, she hated this. Hated how rattled she felt at a simple light not working.

But as she trod towards it, her feet encountered the unmistakable crunch of broken glass. She looked up at the light, her heart jumping. It had been resoundingly smashed, in what looked like a frenzied attack. The light itself was hanging off at a sad angle, trailing wires behind it.

There was a sound up by the gate, and she spun wildly, her baton held out in front of her. But the shape crossing her view turned out to be a chihuahua. It paused at the far gatepost to lift its leg, and then her neighbour appeared after it, his eyes on the illuminated screen of his mobile.

She lowered the baton in case he turned and saw her, though she needn’t have worried. He was too engrossed in the screen and must have been totally night-blind.

Trying to force herself to breathe steadily, she reached into the car and picked up her bag and coat. Her hands were shaking as she let herself into the house, and they kept shaking as she shut the door and checked every room.

There was no broken glass. No forced entry. Nothing to be afraid of. And a quick glance outside showed her that the big, fake but realistic security cameras higher up the wall were still intact.

She moved back into the hall and finally put her bag down. But she kept the truncheon in her hand and used it to hit the carpeted stairs as hard as she could. The sound was loud and satisfying, but not as satisfying as when she yelled ‘Bastard!’ at the top of her voice.

The Hammer and Tongs was, predictably, crowded. There weren’t many places that screened club matches, and this had been Southampton playing. They’d played well, too. As a result, a lot of groups had stayed after the match and there had been a long wait for food.

Jason had caught some of the second half of the game and was feeling as cheerful as most of the other punters. Queuing for the bar when it was finally his round turned out to be a slog, but one that had become strangely companionable. Everyone was either enthusing about Southampton’s performance or talking about the upcoming Six Nations.