Sally’s father had then grabbed the phone and had given Jed a right mouthful. Terry Baldwin was sick of seeing his daughter upset and was at the end of his tether.

‘If you ever come near my Sally again, I swear I will fucking kill you,’ he’d warned Jed.

Jed, being Jed, hadn’t taken any notice of the warning and had since left tons of threatening messages on the landline answerphone, the last being, ‘If you ain’t fucking back ’ere in one hour, Sally, I’m gonna come round there and cut your shitcunt of a father to shreds.’

Sally winced as her father entered the room and put a cup of coffee down next to her. The pains were griping and she was desperate to go to the toilet.

‘How do you feel now?’ Terry asked, concerned. Sally was as white as a sheet and he wondered if he should call an ambulance.

‘I’m OK, but I must go a loo,’ Sally replied, as she half staggered from the room.

Seconds later, Terry heard an almighty scream.

‘Dad, there’s blood everywhere, I think I’m losing the baby,’ Sally cried.

Not one to drink too much when he had to drive from Orsett back to Barking, Jock had four pints and set off home. He felt sick with worry about Stanley’s unusual behaviour. Not only had his old pal looked very drunk, but he and that Pat had looked far more than just friends, and Jock didn’t have a clue what he was now going to say to Joyce.

Within seconds of walking indoors, Jock heard his phone ringing. He glanced at the clock. It was 4 p.m. and his daughter usually rang him at this time most days. He picked up the phone and was horrified to hear Joyce on the other end.

‘Well, did you find the old bastard?’

‘Aye, but I didn’t speak to him, Joycie. He’s still really angry with me, I could see it in his face.’

‘So, where is he then? Where did you see him?’

Aware of how irate Joyce sounded, Jock chose his words carefully. He didn’t want to get his old mate into too much trouble, but if he didn’t give Joycie some information, she would be sure to call the police and find out Stanley’s whereabouts anyway.

‘He was in the Orsett Cock pub. He’s staying with a friend who lives up that way, I think.’

‘Friend! What friend? Apart from you, my Stanley has never had any bleedin’ friends. What’s the bloke’s name he’s stopping with?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ Jock replied untruthfully.

Joyce instinctively knew that Jock was lying. Stanley had definitely been behaving oddly for the last couple of months. He disappeared regularly, usually at lunchtime. He’d put on weight, but ate smaller meals at home, and she could swear she’d whiffed women’s perfume on his clothes and it certainly wasn’t her Estée Lauder. It all added up now, every single, last, sordid detail.

‘What’s the old tart’s name, Jock? I know it’s a woman, so don’t you dare fucking lie to me.’