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Lucy interrupted my musings. ‘You just going to laze there all day or what?’ She dashed through to the kitchen saying she was getting some custard creams.

There followed an excruciating half hour which saw the two of us trailing round the perimeter of Ashton’s recreation ground, gazing up into the branches of the sycamores, poking through overgrown clumps of leylandii calling out ‘Cyril’ while our outstretched hands each held a custard cream.

‘This is ridiculous,’ I exclaimed to Lucy as yet another passer-by, having asked what we were looking for, gave us a look of pity as we told him ‘Cyril the squirrel’, and walked on no doubt thinking we’d been reading too much Beatrix Potter. And when a youth in knee-holed jeans rode by on his bike with a snigger and I overhead him on the corner telling his mates of us two nutters on the rec, I decided enough was enough and called a halt to the search.

Lucy did one final ‘Coo-eee’ in the direction of the ash tree that fronted the rectory and waved a custard cream at Reverend James when he hoved into view. He gave a hesitant wave back.

A week later, I was taking Nelson for a totter across the rec, his arthritic limbs only capable of carrying him once round the perimeter. One of Ashton’s senior citizens who’d also been out for a totter was now sitting on the one bench that had yet to be vandalised. Despite it only being early October and the weather still balmy, she was wrapped in a camel-coloured coat several sizes too big for her which made her look like a sack of potatoes. To her side was a white, plastic bag sporting the name of a well-known supermarket. Behind her, running up and down the back of the bench were three squirrels – all Cyril look-alikes. As I stopped to watch, she extracted an endless stream of food from the bag – lumps of cheese, broken wafers, biscuits. The squirrels scuttled back and forth reaching down to snatch each item offered without the slightest trace of fear.

‘Such pretty creatures, aren’t they?’ she said, peering up at me from the depths of her sack.

I nodded, yanking Nelson back as he pulled forward in an attempt to hoover up the crumbs.

‘And so tame,’ she added. ‘Especially this dear little chap …’ She glanced down at the squirrel who’d jumped on to her arm and was now clasping the biscuit she’d given him.

Though he looked like the other two – bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, tubby little tummy, all the attributes of a healthy squirrel – there was something about him which made me think he could be Cyril. For a moment, I couldn’t decide what that something was. Then it came to me. It was the way he was devouring the biscuit held in his paws. How those incisors were crunching through it. The way it was rapidly disappearing into his mouth. No other squirrel could surely enjoy a biscuit with such relish as he did.

Yes, it had to be Cyril.

And what clinched it?

Why, the biscuit being eaten – a custard cream, of course.

AND THIS LITTLE PIGGY HAD NONE

I was a mite suspicious when, one late July morning, just before the start of the day’s appointments, I saw Eric hovering at the end of the corridor outside my consulting room.

‘Ah, Paul. Just the man,’ he cried, with a flourish of his arms. The joviality in his tone of voice did nothing to allay my doubts. Eric was an amiable enough fellow but usually only became civil around coffee break time. This was far too early for him. Something was up.

‘Before you start, I’d like a word,’ he went on, pointing a finger through the door. ‘Just the two of us.’ He disappeared into the room. By the time I’d got there, several scenarios had galloped through my brain. I remembered the tête-à-tête I’d had with Crystal just before they’d both bombed off to Venice leaving me with the Richardsons’ horse. Was I about to be forewarned about some particular client of Eric’s? The Stockwells, for instance? According to Beryl, they would have no one but him. There again, perhaps I’d upset someone … put my foot in it. No. Surely not.