Having mentally prepared himself to turn a blind eye to Mrs Abbott's misdemeanours, Pascoe now became the guardian of her reputation and pretended to be in washing-machines. Mrs Abbott, he learned, had a washing-machine, didn't want another, wasn't about to get another, and cared perhaps even less than Mr Abbott to deal with poofy commercials at the door. But he also learned that Mrs Abbott had gone down to the school to collect her daughter and, having noticed what he took to be the school two streets away, Pascoe had made his way there to intercept.

He spotted Linda Abbott as the mums began to break off, clutching their spoil. A bold face, heavily made up; a wide loud mouth remonstrating with her small girl for some damage she'd done to her person or clothes. The camera didn't lie after all.

'Mrs Abbott?' said Pascoe. 'Could I have a word with you?'

'As many as you like, love,' said the woman, looking him up and down. 'Only, my name's Mackenzie. Yon's Mrs Abbott, her with the little blonde lass.'

Mrs Abbott was dumpy, untidy and plain. Her daughter on the other hand was a beauty. Another ten years if she maintained her present progress and… I'll probably be too old to care, thought Pascoe.

'Mrs Abbott,' he tried again. 'Could I have a word?'

'Yes?'

'Mam, is this one of them funny buggers?' asked the angelic six-year-old.

'Shut up, our Lorraine,' said Mrs Abbott.

'Funny…?' said Pascoe.

'I tell her not to talk with strangers,' explained Mrs Abbott.

"Cos there's a lot of funny buggers about,' completed Lorraine happily.

'Well, I'm not one of them,' said Pascoe. 'I hope.'

He showed his warrant card, taking care to keep it masked from the few remaining mums.

'You might well hope,' said Mrs Abbott. 'What's up?'

'May I walk along with you?' he asked.

'It's a free street. Lorraine, don't you run on the road now!'