Englishmen were so cold. Maybe it was the climate. She had heard that it rained all the time there.

‘You OK?’

George smiled, his little smile that just showed his teeth. ‘Perfectly.’

Duane sat watching in his Buick. He lit himself a cigarette and settled down to wait for the Englishman to do his business.

Jack Fenton was a retired Army corporal who had lived in Bychester Terrace for ten years. He was not a man to mix very much with his neighbours, but he knew their comings and goings. His wife Daisy said he was nosy, but as far as Jack was concerned he was just observant.

Like the other night when he’d heard a car pull up late in the night, a Rolls-Royce no less, and two men going into the Markhams’ next door. That had thrown him, he admitted. The Markhams kept themselves to themselves, and in Jack’s book that was how it should be. But all the same he would have liked to know who the men were. It was a lovely car. In the end he had put it down to rich relations.

Now their overflow pipe was another matter. He had noticed when he had gone down to get his newspaper and his Woodbines that their overflow was causing a bit of distress. There was a large puddle around the side of the house. He had knocked but got no answer. So after a strong cup of tea he had informed his wife that he was just going next door for a recce. He still used army slang to the annoyance of Daisy, who hated the armed forces with all her heart.

Pulling on his wellingtons Jack went next door. It was a fine crisp morning and he took a few deep lungfuls of air, feeling the burn as it went down his throat. Then he began to cough dangerously so took out his Woodbines, puffing on one until it controlled the tickle. He surveyed the offending overflow pipe, the Woodbine clamped firmly between his teeth.

A blockage somewhere, he would lay money on it. He opened the back gate and walked into the garden, ducking to avoid the falling water. If George and Elaine weren’t careful they’d end up with damp in their walls.

Then he saw the Markhams’ back door.

He walked purposefully towards it and shook his head. There was a perfect round hole cut in the glass by the door handle.

He himself still had the original wire-reinforced glass in his door. The Markhams had a hardwood back door with four glass panels in the top.

Jack wasn’t surprised when the door opened. He walked into the kitchen, his nose quivering like a blood-hound’s.

The place was spotless.

He walked into the lounge and found the same. Nothing had been touched.