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Has it been moved? I swear there’s an extra crease in the Sellotape. It looks different somehow.

And Mum was here earlier …

No. I’m being paranoid. Letting my stress get the better of me.

The key is fine.

No one has moved it.

I think I’m going crazy.

Kate

9.24 a.m.

Keep your head up. Walk tall. I stride past three teenage boys lounging on a bench. They play tinny music from a mobile phone. They’re not quite men, but certainly not young boys.

One of them says, ‘She ain’t wearing a bra.’ And the other two snigger.

I turn around. ‘Excuse me?’

Three pairs of eyes widen in surprise. Then the tallest boy regains his composure and mimics, ‘Excuse me?’

I put my hands on my hips. ‘If you have something to say, come out and say it.’

The boys look uncomfortable then, and the smallest one says, ‘He was just saying he fancied you.’

‘Oh. I see. Well, just to let you know, I am wearing a bra. It’s a 34D seam-free one from Bravissimo and is the most comfortable bra I’ve ever worn.’

The boys don’t know where to look now.

‘We just wanted to know what you’re doing here,’ the tallest one asks.

‘I don’t have to explain myself to you.’

The tallest one says, ‘If you’re looking for someone, I can show you where they live.’ He turns to his friends and boasts, ‘I know everyone in this block.’

‘Okay. Do you know Margaret Kinnock?’ I ask.

‘Um … nah.’

One boy snorts. ‘You knoweveryone.’ Then he says, ‘She’s an older lady, yeah? Like … sort of yellow hair? She’s in that one.’

He points to a first-floor flat. I see long, purple and paisley dresses hanging along the balcony.

‘Thank you.’ I head past a small play park and up concrete stairs onto the first-floor walkway.

Margaret Kinnock’s flat looks neater than those around it, with well-tended marigolds and a funny little sign by the door that says:Beware of the Owner.

I ring the doorbell and hear a jangly version of ‘Greensleeves’.

There is a soft pad of feet and then the door opens. A lady in a green dressing gown with long, dyed-blonde hair answers.

‘Yes?’ She looks me up and down.

‘Margaret Kinnock?’ I ask.

‘Who wants to know?’ Her accent is East London.