Most people don't want to talk about it. "If it's about the McCann's I've nothing to say, " says one elderly lady, holding her hand up in warning. "We need to leave them alone now. Everyone should just leave them alone."

She bustles away down the street, her plastic shopping bag stretched tight across a copy of a tabloid newspaper. It's Friday and the headline reads: "Maddie killed by drug overdose".

The village square looks like a crime scene.

Four large white vans are parked side-by-side, their satellite dishes twisted to the sky. A number of well-dressed journalists are in the middle of live television reports. Large trees stand guard around the square, each with just one yellow and green ribbon tied around its trunk, the ribbon so thin as to be barely visible.

"Are you one of them?" says a man sitting on a bench, nodding his head towards the flock of reporters. Rather surprisingly, he smiles at the positive response. Taking in a sweeping glance of the area, he indicates a space beside him on the bench.

"People are getting angry at you lot but I don't think that's fair, " he says quietly, casting another furtive look around. "A story is a story, that's the way I see it."

He lapses into silence for a minute, before continuing unprompted. "I must say, I didn't take much notice of it myself, at first, " he says.

"Didn't have time. But in the last few days, I've been reading up on it and it seems all wrong, doesn't it? You know, we were just talking about it in the office this morning. And I think definitely, people's minds have started to change since the weekend. There are too many questions, I think. People are more of one mind now."

Asked if this "one mind" is a consensus towards guilt or innocence, the man looks a little uncomfortable. His eyes continue to scan the square. "Well, people are starting to agree with the Portuguese police, aren't they?" he asks, almost whispering now. "The police wouldn't have taken it this far if they didn't have the evidence. And when you read the papers, all this talk about the diary and the laptop and the teddy bear and everything. It couldn't all be wrong, could it? The people here are cottoning on to it, even though they don't want to admit it. Look there for instance. . ."

His index finger wiggles briefly in the direction of the war monument standing in the middle of the square. "That used to be full of flowers and ribbons and cards, didn't it?

Look at it now. Just one candle and that's all.

The family said they wanted all the ribbons taken away because it wasn't fair to us, to be taking up our square, they said. But there's more to it than that. Those ribbons are gone because people don't want them there."

He pauses again, watching a bored-looking Portuguese journalist walking in small circles around a tree. "I mean, I know they're doctors and that made people think that they just couldn't be involved."

A group of women and children come chattering around the corner and the man stands up abruptly and brushes at his trousers. "They should never have let it get this far, " he says, shaking his head. "They should have come forward when it happened, and explained themselves, and people would've understood. Or then again, " he shrugs, "maybe they wouldn't."

On the corner of the square is the local garden/pet store. Inside, a middle-aged man is standing behind the counter, his hands dug deep in his pockets and a friendly smile etched across his face, as if it never leaves. Asked if the mood in the town is changing, his eyebrows draw together and he looks suddenly sad and reflective. He opens his mouth to speak.

"We've said all we're going to say, and that's it, " says a woman, appearing suddenly from behind an aisle and shooting a warning glare at the shopkeeper. The man closes his mouth again, and shrugs apologetically.

The women of Rothley are particularly angry and defensive, as if the allegations against Kate McCann represent a slur against them all. There is an air of betrayal in the town, a sense of hurt and surprise. And uncertainty.

"We just want the media out of here, that's all we know at this point, " says the lady in the news shop on the corner, curtly handing over a copy of the local paper. Sure enough, the headline on the front page of the Leicester Mercury reads "Please Leave". The article quotes several residents voicing their displeasure at the media intrusion on their town.

Speaking on behalf of the village, the chairman of the Rothley Parish Council says the town still supports the McCanns but the people really just want to get their lives back to normal. "I know it's a big story and the press want to be here to get the news but I really don't see what they're going to get at this stage, " said councillor Percy Hartshorn.

"We're just hoping that it will all die down a bit. I don't think people are going to tolerate it if it carries on longer than that. There will be a lot of problems."

But despite this wish for normality, it seems unlikely the village of Rothley will be in a position to forget this story any time soon. The village coffee shop is brimming full of people, half of whom appear to be from the media.

Most of the sandwiches on the menu are out of stock. "We've no cheese, all out I'm afraid, " says the waitress, looking surprised herself.

"No, no chicken either. We've a bit of soup left, if you want."

At a nearby table, a group of four women are huddled together. Words like "forensic", "blood" and "circumstantial" keep floating from their table. Not your average coffee-shop conversation.

On the outskirts of the town, a young mother is standing in the local playground . . .the same playground the McCanns visited the previous day, on a much-publicised family outing. The mother is watching her daughter . . .a beautiful blonde girl around the same age as Madeleine . . . play on the swings. She sighs heavily at the mention of the case.

"We just don't know what to think anymore, I suppose, " she says, her eyes never leaving her child. "No one wants to believe it, really, it just seems impossible. And they're doctors, you know. Still, I think some people are starting to change their minds. There seems to be a lot of new information coming out. It's starting to look very bad for them. I don't believe it though, " she gestures helplessly towards her daughter. "How could anyone?

You know?"

The little girl has started swinging precariously high on the swing and the young mother rushes away, shouting admonishments.

The sun is shining down upon the town square and the macabre reports in today's papers seem worlds away from this picturesque, sleepy town. The ribbons on the trees aren't a visible enough reminder. If it weren't for the media presence, you'd never guess this village was home to the most infamous parents in the world.

In the window of the local pub is perhaps the most telling sign of all. One solitary 'missing' poster. But it's not for Madeleine McCann. It's for a cat called Twix.