‘Of course. But look, if you change your mind, yeah, you will come along? It’s at the Tabernacle in Notting Hill. There are quite a lot of us. It’ll be fun. I’ll be really, really cross if you don’t come.’

Just get her off the phone now, Maggie.

‘Right. Thanks for letting me know.’

‘You’re welcome, Maggie.’ She sounded like someone off Oprah. The girl was a natural, everything she said was imbued with all the sincerity of a psychopath. ‘Take care out there, won’t you.’

‘I will.’ I rang off. As I left the flat, I cast a look up and down the street first. Nothing but a group of twenty-something girls in their finest Burberry, splashing arm in arm through the puddles to the Oyster Bar opposite the flat. I had a nasty gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach as I got into the car. A feeling I was getting used to – but a whole new suspicion.

Susan’s cold was still streaming when I arrived at Elmside House an hour later.

‘Ooh dear, sorry.’ She sneezed loudly. ‘I just can’t seem to shake this off.’ She blew her nose energetically and then tucked her hanky up her sleeve. ‘You go on to Vera while I get us a nice cuppa. She’ll be so pleased to see you.’

She wouldn’t really, we both knew, it was unlikely she’d recognise me at all, in fact – but I acquiesced politely and started up the hall. On the way I passed Emmeline. She was at least ninety but insisted on wearing smocks in little-girl pink, velvet bows in her hair, and was always accompanied by her imaginary poodle Toy-toy on a lead.

‘Hi, Emmeline,’ I smiled at her.

‘Have we met? My dance-card is full, you know,’ she simpered back and wandered off to stretch Toy-toy’s legs.

The apricot-coloured corridor didn’t smell quite the same as normal. There was the usual stench of disinfectant, but something else was fighting it hard; something sweet and rather sickly. As I rounded the corner my skin rose into goose-pimples. Through the partially open door I could see Gar slumped awkwardly in her chair, her radio tuned to something sombre, something that I knew and had reason to hate. It took me a moment to recognise it as Mozart’s Requiem. Gar’s hair had come loose from its usual bun, flopping across her veiled face, the strange light dappling her skin. My heart skipped a beat and I started to run.