‘Well, now that Leena’s finally here, shall we begin?’ Betsy asks. I resist the urge to point out that I wasn’t the last to arrive, Jackson was – but everyone is too busy passing him biscuits to notice that. ‘Seats, please!’

It’s hard not to wince as the elderly in the room shuffle themselves in front of their chairs and then – starting slowly at first, then picking up speed – they bend at the knees as best they can until they land somewhere on their seats with a thump.

‘Jackson usually sits there,’ Roland says, just as I bend to sit down.

‘Ah.’ I look around, still in a squat. ‘Jackson, do you mind if …’

Jackson waves a large, affable hand. ‘Course, sit yourself down.’

‘No,’ Roland says sternly, just as my bum touches the seat. ‘No, no, that’s Jackson’s seat.’

Jackson laughs. ‘Roland, it’s fine.’

‘But you like that seat best!’ Roland protests.

‘Leena can have it.’

‘What a thoughtful young man he is,’ Penelope says to Betsy.

‘Mmm. And he’s been so kind about the incident with the dog, hasn’t he?’ Betsy replies, folding her hands in her lap.

I grit my teeth and straighten up. ‘Here’s an idea. How about we all swap seats, see how it changes our perspective?’ I suggest. ‘You’ll be amazed how much difference it makes.’

They all stare at me blankly, except Jackson, who looks to me like a man trying very hard not to laugh.

‘This is where I sit,’ Basil declares firmly. ‘I don’t want to change my perspective, thank you very much. I like it right here.’

‘Oh, but—’

‘Do you know how hard it was to get into this chair, young lady?’ says Roland.

‘But I can help you get—’

‘Besides, this one’s nearest the gents,’ says Basil.

‘Yes,’ Penelope says, ‘and when Basil needs to spend a penny, he needs to spend a penny, dear, there’s nothing else for it.’

‘Right. OK,’ I say.

They look pleased. They have defeated my attempt at a basic change-management exercise with their talk of bladder control.

‘You’d better have this seat, Jackson,’ I say, and make my way to a different chair. Best to pick one’s battles; this does not feel like the right hill to die on.

‘I really don’t mind,’ Jackson says mildly.

‘No, no,’ I say, more sharply than I should. ‘You enjoy your favourite chair. I’m perfectly fine here.’

Once we’ve got going, I spend most of the meeting wondering what the meeting is, which is not an uncommon feeling – I’d say eighty per cent of the client meetings I attend are spent this way – but does make it hard to engage with the discussion.

The main thing that’s confusing me is the total lack of any mention of crime. So far we’ve talked about: bacon sandwiches (Roland has discovered that Mabel at No 5 Peewit Street makes excellent ones, so he’s back to boycotting Julie’s, which I gather is a café in Knargill), squirrels (Basil is very anti), and whether potatoes are fattening (I think it’s the bacon sandwiches they ought to be worrying about, really). Then everyone spends twenty minutes complaining about Firs Blandon, a local village that has apparently caused havoc by moving a farmer’s fence two feet to the left to reflect what they believe to be the boundary between parishes. I lose the plot a bit at this stage and just dedicate myself to eating biscuits.

I glance down at the agenda. Only one more point to discuss before we reach ‘any crime?’, which will, I am assuming, finally cover some actual crime.

‘Oh, yes, this was Eileen’s latest little project, wasn’t it?’ Betsy says. ‘So you’ll be taking it on, will you, Leena?’

‘Pardon?’ I ask, midway through what must be my one hundredth biscuit.

‘Helping the elderly and isolated of Knargill by providing transport,’ Betsy reads. ‘I’m not sure how she plans to manage that, but …’ Betsy blinks expectantly at me.

I consider the point. This seems fairly straightforward.

‘How many of you have cars?’ I ask. ‘Aside from Jackson and Piotr and Kathleen, obviously, who can’t spare the time – but the rest of you are retired, aren’t you? Can you fit in, oh, a drive every other day?’

Everyone looks very alarmed – except for Jackson, who is looking more amused than ever.

‘Where do you think would be a good place to take them for the odd trip out? Leeds is too far,’ I say, looking back at Betsy. ‘but maybe Daredale?’

There is a lengthy silence. Eventually Dr Piotr takes pity on me.

‘Ah, Leena, most of the team here are … Though many of them do have cars’ – this said with a slight air of resignation – ‘they’re not all encouraged to drive as far as Daredale.’

‘Not to say that we can’t,’ Betsy says. ‘I still hold a licence, you know.’

‘And Dr Piotr can’t stop me driving until I’ve gone officially doolally,’ Penelope says, with relish.

‘Ah. Right,’ I say. ‘Well, I’ve been meaning to sort myself a car for a while, anyway, what with Grandma’s one being …’

‘Out of action?’ Betsy supplies.

‘Damaged beyond repair?’ Basil says at the same time.

‘Do any of you have a car that you would like to lend me while I’m here?’

There is silence.

‘Penelope!’ I say brightly. She strikes me as the best option. The men aren’t going to budge, and I’m certainly not going to get any support from Betsy. ‘Could I borrow your car every now and then?’

‘Oh, but I … Well, I still …’ Penelope trails off, then, without much good grace: ‘Oh, I suppose so.’

‘Brilliant, thanks, Penelope!’ I say. I wait until she’s looked away before giving Dr Piotr a quick wink. He gives me a thumbs-up in return.

So now I’ve got Dr Piotr on side, at least. And a car.

‘That’s that, then!’ says Betsy, with a clap. ‘Moving on … May Day! I know this isn’t an official committee meeting, but as the committee is all present, and there are some urgent matters that can’t wait until next meeting, perhaps we could cover one or two things here?’

Everybody nods. I’m pretty sure the May Day Committee is comprised of exactly the same people as the Neighbourhood Watch Committee, so I could point out that two separate meetings are not entirely necessary. Better not, though, on reflection.

‘Theme! I assume we’re all happy with Jackson’s suggestion? Tropical?’

‘Tropical?’ I say, before I can stop myself.

Betsy swivels in her chair to glare at me. ‘Yes, Leena. Tropical. It’s perfect for a sunny spring festival. Don’t you think?’

‘Well, I …’

I glance around the circle, then look at Jackson, who is raising his eyebrows a little, as if to say, Oh, do go on.

‘I’m just not sure it plays to our strengths. People will be attracted to this as a quaint village fair that they can bring their kids to. “Tropical” feels a bit … night out in Clapham.’