Jason sipped. It was particularly dry and tasteless. ‘Absolutely,’ he said.

Emily sipped and agreed, too. He could almost hear the sound of her gritted teeth.

The detritus of Christmas lay around. Balls of wrapping paper; the fake Christmas tree with just a couple of unclaimed gifts lying beneath it. The mantelpiece above the fake fire lined with cards, with more cards on shelves and on a string across the end wall.

‘Fill your boots!’ Maurice encouraged. ‘You don’t have far to drive home, do you, ha ha!’

‘So, did you have a nice day yesterday?’ Emily asked.

‘Oh we did, yes,’ Claudette replied. ‘Sixteen for Christmas lunch. Although I suppose you, with your catering business, Emily, would take that in your stride.’ She hurried out of the room.

Maurice leaned over towards them, conspiratorially. ‘High Command managed to burn the turkey. Left it in the oven too long. Burned to a crisp, the skin was. Bit of a disaster, actually. You had a good day, did you?’

‘We had the outlaws,’ Jason said.

‘Outlaws, ha ha! Had mine, too. They left a few minutes before we murdered them, ha ha.’ He looked at Emily. ‘I’ll bet you’re a wonderful cook.’

‘She is,’ Jason said.

‘I’ll bet she is!’

Emily was staring at something across the room and didn’t appear to hear either of them.

‘I’ll bet you another thing – that your turkey was perfect, eh?’ Maurice said. ‘Not cremated?’

Jason answered for her. ‘It was, thanks. But now she’s fretting because she’s got a wedding anniversary to cater for in a couple of days: eighty people. They want prawn cocktails for starters. Can you imagine making eighty prawn cocktails? The amazing thing is she never gets flustered!’

‘I could eat the lot!’ Maurice Penze-Weedell said. ‘Love prawn cocktails, I do. Know what they say about the perfect wife?’ he said to Jason.

‘I do. If I’m thinking what you’re about to say, don’t even go there.’

‘Maurice, don’t you dare!’ Claudette silenced him in his tracks, returning with a tray of plates stacked with sausage rolls, mince pies, cheese and pineapple sticks, and crisps. She set it down on the table.

Maurice reached out and stuffed a sausage roll in his mouth.

‘You’ll have to forgive my husband,’ she said, shoving an entire mince pie into her own mouth. Spraying flakes of pastry, she added, ‘He’s such a gannet.’

‘I wanted to ask you something,’ Maurice said, looking at their guests. ‘You’ve been here just on a fortnight, and we’ve been a few weeks longer. Have you noticed anything strange, at all? You know, anything out of the ordinary?’

‘Maurice!’ his wife said, sharply, again.

‘Strange?’ Jason queried.

‘A chap wandering down the street, outside, at night, smoking a cigar?’

‘This is utter rubbish!’ Claudette said, sitting down on the opposite, matching sofa, alongside her husband, and grabbing another mince pie, as if scared they would be gone. ‘This is a complete invention by my husband to explain why he comes home every night after his constitutional – which is meant to be his evening walk on his doctor’s orders – reeking of tobacco smoke.’