It was about two feet tall, dressed in a yellowed lace gown. Its painted face was cracked but serene. Its eyes, however, were wide open and wet. As the camera’s light swept over it, the doll turned its head.

“Duckworth’s Drains, Frank speaking. If it’s an emergency, I’ll be there. If it’s a hairball, call a barber.”

Then Frank saw the source of the scrape. At the far end of the chamber, a fourth doll was dragging something towards a narrow outlet pipe. It was a bundle of wet wipes and cooking oil, the size of a rolled-up carpet. The doll was building a blockage. Deliberately.

“No job too strange. No blockage too cursed.”