‘You need to get up,’ he says.

‘Are the kids OK?’

‘They’re not hurt, if that’s what you mean.’

‘What time is it?’ I ask.

‘Five-thirty.’

I get out of bed and grab an old pair of clean scrubs from the stack in my wardrobe, my go-to attire when time is short. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Jesus. You didn’t hear the hammering at the front door?’

‘Obviously not.’

Tom sighs. ‘Just hurry up and get dressed.’

I pull on my scrubs and follow him downstairs. The front door is open: standing in the street outside is our elderly neighbour from across the road, Mr Maxwell. Marshall. Something like that.

He has his arm around our son.

‘Why are you out of bed?’ I ask Peter. ‘Why are you dressed?’

‘Mr Mitchell was disturbed by a noise in his kitchen this morning,’ Tom says, his tone preternaturally calm. Only I can see the muscle working at the corner of his jaw that signifies how angry he is. ‘When he came downstairs, he found Peter going through his fridge.’

Peter ducks his head, looking suitably contrite. It’s an act, of course, but a convincing one.

‘You broke into Mr Marshall’s house?’ I demand.

‘It’s Mr Mitchell,’ the man says, apologetically.

‘I woke up early and I couldn’t find Pumpkin,’ Peter says innocently. ‘I was worried about her, so I went outside to look for her. And I saw her go into Mr Mitchell’s house so I went to rescue her. The kitchen window was open,’ he adds. ‘I didn’t break in.’

He’s so full of shit.

The only time he bothers with Meddie’s cat is when he wants to torment her. I know exactly why he broke into the man’s house: like mother, like son.

But Peter is ten.

‘You thought the cat was in the fridge?’ I ask sardonically.

‘I was looking to see if there was any cream,’ Peter says. ‘I thought Pumpkin might come out from wherever she was hiding if I put some out for her.’

‘I’m sure the boy didn’t mean any harm,’ Mr Mitchell says, releasing Peter.

Tom clamps his arm around our son’s shoulder and pulls him close. ‘I can’t apologise enough for Peter’s behaviour,’ he says. ‘We’re so grateful to you for bringing him back safely, Mr Mitchell, and for not taking this any further. I promise you, we’ll be having a serious talk with our son once we’ve all got some sleep. You’d better apologise to Mr Mitchell, Peter,’ he adds. ‘You must have given him the fright of his life. And we’ll be thinking of ways our boy can make this up to you, Mr Mitchell. I’m sure he’d be happy to do your weeding for the rest of the summer, for a start.’

‘I don’t think there’s any need for—’