‘Of course I do.’

‘And, in some cases, you must see situations where the hoarding has created fire hazards?’

‘I certainly have.’

‘So, in your professional capacity, you would very definitely recognize a fire hazard when you saw one?’

‘Yes.’

‘All I need from you, Mrs Curtis, is confirmation of what we were told by the deceased’s daughter, Alexandra Richards, that her mother’s flat was a fire hazard.’

‘Well …’

‘Was it, Mrs Curtis?’

It was too difficult to explain Ingrid Richards’ mature awareness of the risk and her resolution not to succumb to it.

‘Yes, Sergeant,’ I said wretchedly.

When he opened the door to me, there was something both smug and shameful in Edward Finch’s manner. He was like a little boy who knew he had been naughty but was rather proud of his naughtiness.

I soon realized what had happened. The cardboard boxes I had so carefully packed with his dead wife’s clothes two days before were no longer in the hall. No, that’s not quite accurate. The boxes were there in the hall, but they had had the tape holding them in shape cut through. They were once again flattened, just as I carried them in the Yeti. And of their contents there was no sign.

Wordlessly, Edward led me through the door at the end of the hall that opened on to the master bedroom. The clothes had been draped back over the bed and floor, exactly as they had been before I collected them up and packed them.

‘I’m sorry, Ellen,’ he said. ‘I just couldn’t do it.’

TEN

It would have been different if Edward Finch had been referred to me by the social services. Then I would have felt I had to sort out his problem. But he’d contacted me off his own bat. He’d asked for my advice; I’d given it and he had chosen to disregard it.

I didn’t think his situation was worse than that of any other bereaved husband. And he had the advantage of the devoted Cara to help him out. However much he disparaged what she did for him, she ensured that his living conditions didn’t descend into total squalor.

So, I told Edward Finch that unless he was prepared to change his attitude, I couldn’t help him any more. If he decided he could change, then he should contact me again.

I also said that I would invoice him for the two visits I’d made after the initial consultation. I hadn’t got time to waste with habitual time-wasters.

‘Do you fancy another meeting on the beach at Littlehampton?’ Alexandra’s voice sounded unaccountably cheerful, even jaunty.

‘Well, yes. That’d be fine.’ By the Friday, I was desperate to talk to someone about the death of Ingrid Richards, but there had really been no reason for me to contact her daughter. Except maybe to offer condolences. So, I was glad that Alexandra had rung me.

‘Even better,’ she said, ‘why don’t I buy you lunch at that nice East Beach Café?’