I opened my door to a small, round woman in a football scarf.
‘Is that your car?’ she said, pointing at a red Micra parked on the kerb. There was an old lady in the passenger seat.
‘No, sorry.’
‘It’s blocking me in.’
‘Yes, I can see that.’
‘Well, could you move it please?’
‘I’d love to, but it’s not my car.’
‘The lady in it says that the driver went into this house.’
The old lady in the passenger seat wouldn’t look at me. As she gripped her handbag to her chest, I saw the panic in her face.
