He left her to her own devices and descended the stairs. Trish had exerted a baleful influence on his life ever since he was a child. Since the hit-and-run case a few years ago and the failed prosecution against her, she had been an inherited burden, having sold up from Devon and moved into a bungalow opposite him. But for all their relief at her coming out of a coma, her turning up like this unannounced was a nightmare.

‘She can’t stay for long,’ Sam hissed.

‘Three days. I’ll get to work on her bungalow and make sure it’s fit for her to move back in.’

‘In what spare time exactly? You told me you were on shift tomorrow.’

‘I’ll start now,’ he said grimly.

‘Let me give you a hand,’ Sam said. ‘I don’t want to be left with her on her own.’

‘The hospital needs to be notified,’ Gillard said. ‘She might have medication she needs, all sorts of things.’

They were both silenced by the sound of a soft tread descending the stairs. Trish was smiling at them, having once again embedded herself in their lives. Gillard shivered at the prospect.

The Wagon and Horses wasn’t far from West Croydon railway station. It was coming up to eight p.m. and Carl Hoskins was sitting at the newly-constructed outside bar, nursing an almost-finished pint, staring disconsolately at the football highlights which showed Arsenal a goal down. Although he was wearing a rugby shirt, tracksuit bottoms and trainers, sport for Carl Hoskins was strictly a spectator activity. His weight had gradually climbed over the years, but now it was undeniably a problem. The doctor who had handed him a diabetes diagnosis last week said as much. He had to watch what he ate and drank. The trouble was, it wasn’t just a tweak here and there he needed to make, it was a wholesale revolution. Like many things that are too big to face, Hoskins had so far just turned his back on the whole subject.