Happy with the ending, I rolled over and looked at my phone; seven fifteen, time to squeeze in another few minutes’ sleep. I was just getting comfortable in the cosy me-shaped dip in the mattress when there was a soft knock on the shed door. Nobody ever knocked on that door. George and Gentleman were the only ones who ventured down, and they certainly didn’t stand on ceremony. I’m lucky if I get a two-second warning before the door flings open and George starts verbally trashing the place. ‘What a dump!’ is his favourite variation on the theme.

Dom had popped his head in once, staying just long enough to have a cursory look around and refuse my offer of a cuppa. ‘I’d rather go to a tea party under Waterloo Bridge,’ he said. Like son, like father, and actually, I once spent a sleepless night under Waterloo Bridge after I missed the last Tube home with a brilliant guy called Blue Tony, and that evening remains one of the highlights of my life. I didn’t mention that to Dom, though.

I’d just about convinced myself I’d imagined the knock when there was a very definite throat-clear that sounded about six inches from my head. I shot out from under the duvet on to my knees and peered through the thin layer of moss on the window. It was a couple of disorienting seconds before I worked out what I was squinting at, which was the terrifying sight of a (definitely human) face squashed right up to the glass on the other side. I recoiled like a shot and nearly fell off the bed.

‘Oi! What the bloody hell? Get out of it, you!’

The face reared back at the same speed, flashing the very white whites of a couple of boggling eyes before it disappeared. There was a soft thud as what sounded like a quite substantial body fell backwards on to what I knew instantly was the pile of fertiliser bags I’d left in that very spot. Because there are many things I’ve learned I can share a space with (Blue Tony’s collection of spooky Victorian dolls a case in point), but blood, bone and chicken poo are not on that list. I’d been promising Dom I’d spread it on the garden beds for three months – the least I could do considering I’d overtaken his garden storage – but I felt slightly vindicated at the thought of a prowler now presumably flat on his back.

That thought gave me a bit of an edge, so when I leaped off the bed, I was way more nimble than I’d have thought I was capable of at that hour of the morning. I flung open the door to see Dom leaning casually against the back of the house, one hand in the pocket of his perfectly ironed chinos and the other holding a piece of toast. He looked highly amused.

‘Morning, Danny.’ He turned his head in the direction of the fertiliser. ‘You found him then, Pete?’