Sipping my coffee in the kitchen, I heard my husband Miles, then 45, call from our bedroom across the hall.
‘Who’s that shouting outside?’ he groaned.
It was 9.30am on a Sunday morning in August 2022.
I loved relaxing Sundays, and on this one Miles was enjoying a lie-in, while I made us a fry-up.
My daughter, then 14, was asleep in her room.
Sure enough, I could hear a woman’s voice coming from the front of our block of flats.
She sounded drunk.
I frowned.
We’d moved into our two-bedroom, ground-floor flat seven years earlier.
I was good mates with a few neighbours, including Debbie, who lived nearby.
We’d sit and chat in her front
