I’ve been watching them for years, the old couple up the road. Every day they walk past my house on their way to the newsagents to get their copy of the Daily Mail. As they totter up the street holding hands, they seem so sweet together. I don’t know how long they’ve been married but it’s longer than I’ve been on this planet, I’m sure. They’re always chatting and sometimes I open the window a crack and listen in. Rude, I know, but I can’t help myself. There’s often mention of an Alfie in the fragments I catch; I think he may be their dog, though I’ve never seen him. Sometimes they talk of Emily and a look of sadness crosses the woman’s face. But usually they’re cheery and friendly, waving to passers-by as they walk. They’ve even waved at me once or twice, when I’ve twitched the curtain a bit too much.

I often try to picture them at home. Him in the armchair, flicking through the paper, shouting out headlines and bits of news stories to his long suffering wife. Commandeering the TV remote, except on Sundays when she insists they watch Antiques Roadshow. Her pottering around in the kitchen, making shepherds pie or beans on toast, to be eaten in front of the telly.

Sometimes I think about what it must be like to be them. Married all these years, seeing the world change more than they could ever have imagined. Watching friends come and go, pets and relatives too. Waking up and seeing the same old face across the pillow, day after day after day. They seem fond of each other and I sometimes yearn for the predictability of their easy life, the contentment, the togetherness.

One morning, the old woman walks past the house on her own. I wonder if her husband is ill and it worries me, the idea of her alone.

When the ambulance turns up a little later that day, swiftly followed by a police car, my concerns grow. I think about calling in, introducing myself and seeing if there’s anything I can do to help.

And then when I see the old woman escorted from the house in handcuffs, I don’t know what to think.