I heard the pad of feet approaching me from behind. ‘What on earth are you doing in the laundry at this hour of the morning?’ Maggie asked, stifling a yawn with the back of her hand, a picture of elegance in a once-white dressing gown and with shambolic morning hair. ‘You look a fright.’ There was the pot calling the proverbial kettle names.

‘I couldn’t be fagged dealing with my top last night, so I just bunged it in some water. I hope it’s not ruined. I was looking for stain soaker, but there’s so much crap in here.’ The Kershaws’ laundry cupboard was full of unidentifiable boxes and ancient-looking concoctions. The washing powder lived on the shelf above the tub, but if you needed anything a little more specialist, a bit of archaeology was in order. I picked up a box that looked the right shape for stain soaker and lifted the lid. It was a powder, but the colour was a bit dodgy. ‘What is this stuff?’

Maggie peered over, her expression somewhere between a grimace and a laugh. ‘Eew, no, for God’s sake put that away, that’s Great-Uncle George.’

‘What do you mean, Great-Uncle George?’ I said, giving it a little shake.

‘I mean, that is, literally, Great-Uncle George. Those are his ashes.’

The dawning realisation I was holding someone’s remains in my hands gave me a major case of the heebie-jeebies. I flipped the lid back down and hastily put him back on the shelf where I found him.

‘Who the hell keeps their relatives in the laundry cupboard?’ I asked as I rubbed my hands down my pyjama pants. Then, deciding that wasn’t quite good enough, I reached over and washed them in the sink, with an excessive amount of soap.

‘He’s been there for years. He’s Uncle Phil’s father. Apparently, they didn’t get along too well, so when he died, Uncle Phil put him the laundry cupboard and he’s stayed there ever since.’

‘Why didn’t they just scatter him somewhere or bury him?’

‘Aunty Jude wants to, make it decent and proper. In fact, she was the one who caved in and picked him up from the Kremlin.’

‘Kremlin?’