Five minutes later, Sylvia Wilson stood in her kitchen looking at the unlocked kitchen door. She had definitely locked it the night before, so whoever it was had obviously chosen an easier route out than the one he came in by.

Nothing had been taken that she could see, and nothing was damaged, but even so, she rang the police.

After being passed around a bit, a cheery-sounding woman gave her an incident number. She told Sylvia that as the intruder had left and nothing had been taken, she couldn’t promise a visit. If Sylvia could get to the station sometime this morning and make a statement, it would be attended to as soon as possible.

‘Actually, no, I’m not coming to the station,’ she said angrily. ‘I want someone to see this. He stepped right over me, for heaven’s sake! I live alone! Have you any idea how frightened I am!’

There was a pause, during which she heard the woman talking to someone else. A few moments later she was back. ‘Can I have your address, please? If you stay at home, an officer will be with you as soon as someone is free.’

Sylvia realised that she was shaking.

She went back upstairs, pulled on some clothes and rang work to tell them she’d had an intruder and was waiting for the police. She wouldn’t be in until tomorrow. They didn’t sound too happy about it, but sod them. She was in no fit state to work.

It was an hour before an officer arrived, looking less than enthusiastic. He seemed more inclined to tell her what he couldn’t do than what he could. Then Sylvia burst into tears and he softened.

‘Are you up to showing me these footprints?’

She led the way upstairs.

PC Simon Laker stared at the dried mud on the duvet and the floor and let out a low whistle. ‘I see what you mean. That must have given you quite a scare.’

‘You have no idea,’ said Sylvia shakily. ‘And I never heard him, I didn’t even wake up.’

‘Maybe that’s for the best, Mrs Wilson. I’m just going to take some photographs, if that’s okay?’

‘Please do, and then this bedding goes straight in the washing machine.’ She was inclined to bin it, but it was her best linen, and it hadn’t been cheap.

‘Er, well, if you could leave washing it for a bit.’ PC Laker frowned. ‘I suggest you place it in a black refuse sack and tie it up. We may not need it — normally we wouldn’t — but as I drove here I heard that there’d been another call about an intruder last night, and it could be the same guy. There could be some trace evidence on your bedding.’

All at once, she was drained. ‘I need a cup of tea. Can I offer you one, officer?’

‘White, one sugar, please, Mrs Wilson.’

Downstairs, he joined her in the kitchen and sat opposite her at the table, his tablet in his hand.