‘I’m sorry, there’s been quite a lot of upheaval with Jim’s passing,’ Dorothy said. ‘I couldn’t find his notes on you. Perhaps you could remind me?’

He frowned, looked agitated. ‘I told your husband all this.’

‘And again, I’m sorry.’

‘It’s very simple,’ Jacob said. ‘She’s stealing from me, moving my stuff about too.’

‘Susan?’

His eyes widened. ‘Yes.’

‘And who is she?’

‘She’s my carer.’ He said this last word with disdain. ‘That’s what they call themselves these days. Not nurses. Not that I need anyone to care for me.’

Dorothy had checked the whiteboard. ‘Susan Raymond, is that right?’

‘Yes, yes. My delightful daughter-in-law hired her, so that her and my son wouldn’t have to visit. Not that they ever did that anyway, of course.’

‘So she’s from a private company.’

Jacob lifted a trembling hand to his cardigan pocket, pulled out a card, handed it over. Bright Life Care, a website and telephone number. ‘But she’s no good.’

‘What makes you think she’s stealing from you?’

He got annoyed. ‘Because things have gone missing, of course. I’m not stupid.’

‘OK.’

‘Just because I’m old, doesn’t mean I’m senile. People treat you like an imbecile half the time, just because your body’s fucked.’

Dorothy raised her eyebrows.

He cleared his throat. ‘Oh, the old man can swear? Whoopee. Fuck, shit, bollocks. I lectured on linguistics for forty years, I know all about the power of language. And I came over as a teenager on the Kindertransport, so I’ve had plenty to swear about in 82my time. My wife has been dead for fifteen years, my children don’t want to spend any time with me, and my nurse is stealing my shit. So forgive me if the odd swearword slips out.’

Dorothy smiled. ‘Not a problem.’

He narrowed his eyes. ‘Where are you from?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Your accent,’ he said. ‘America?’

‘California originally,’ she said. ‘But I’ve been here fifty years.’

He nodded. ‘But they never leave you, do they? Those formative years.’

His stare seemed to burrow into her, and she found herself picturing the waves crashing against the pier on Pismo Beach all those years ago. ‘No, I suppose they don’t.’

‘My wife was Ukrainian,’ he said, nodding at the pictures on the wall. ‘She painted them. She lived through Stalin’s famine as a small child. Incredible, really.’

He coughed again, brought a thin hand to his mouth. ‘So you’ll bring the cameras?’

Dorothy knew they had motion-activated cameras in Jim’s office, but she’d never had to set them up or use them.

‘Tell me more about what’s gone missing.’

He shook his head. ‘Mostly money, but other things too. An old television that was in one of the upstairs rooms. I had an iPad that I can’t find anywhere. Even some books, first editions. And food.’