My bladder’s full and my bones ache from lying on the decking planks. I used to be fine with sleeping rough, but I guess it’s a young man’s game. There are voices coming from inside – Casey’s and two others. I don’t want to face strangers in my dishevelled state, but there’s nowhere in this scruffy garden where I can safely pee without being seen. I can imagine what Angelica would make of that.

I shed the sticky sleeping bag like snakeskin, heading straight for the bathroom, with its beige suite and corn-dolly tiles. The toilet flushes with the feeblest dribble: another little DIY task that needs sorting. I wrap a towel around my waist to cover my boxers and go into the main room to fetch the rest of my clothes. I’m guessing there will be an inquisition.

A sturdy woman with dark curly hair sits next to Casey on the sofa. In the armchair opposite is a girl with the same dramatic hair. The kid must be Casey’s age, but she’s longer, broader, wearing a cropped T-shirt and very short shorts.

‘So this is the infamous Dan Lennon?’ the woman says.

I nod. ‘That’s me.’

‘You’re exactly how I pictured you.’ Her tone tells me this is not a good thing. She stands up and for a second I think she’s about to slap my face. At the last minute she shakes my hand instead. ‘I’m Harriet, Angelica’s best friend, and this is my daughter, Molly. Casey’s been filling us in.’

‘Angelica’s still in bed?’ I ask, unnecessarily, because the chalet is so small there’s nowhere else she could be.

‘The car journey tired her out,’ Casey says, and we all stare down at the warped laminate, because we know it goes a lot deeper than that.

‘Girls, why don’t you go for a walk?’

Molly tuts, but unravels herself from the armchair. ‘Can I have money for a Coke at the shop? And a Magnum?’

Harriet reaches into her huge designer bag – I wonder what she does for work here in this backwater. Perhaps she commutes to run a private school or a big bank: she’s used to getting her own way. Except, I reckon, where her daughter is concerned. She hands Molly a five-pound note and, when Molly doesn’t budge, swaps it for a tenner.

Molly is almost out of the door, but Casey hesitates.

‘Don’t worry, sweetheart,’ Harriet says. ‘We’ll be here if your mum needs us.’

A floorboard creaks when the front door shuts behind the girls. I wish I’d brought my tools with me, so I could leave the chalet in slightly better shape. ‘This place needs a bit of TLC,’ I say.

Harriet’s sour face is back. ‘It hasn’t exactly been top priority since Casey got sick. My husband has offered to do some jobs, but Angelica said no. Her dad got so frustrated he even sent round a van full of builders, but she sent them packing too.’

I shiver. That sounds like Vaughn – if someone won’t do what you want, try to bully them into it.