A curiously unpleasant smell emanated from her kitchen. A clue came from Jacko, who was staring transfixed at a point on the kitchen counter and making yearning, whining noises deep in his throat. I lifted up a teacloth on the worktop and found a packet of pudgy sausages the colour of dead fingers.

‘How long have these been here?’ I called to Maisie, trying to squint at the best-before label without getting my nostrils too close.

‘Oh, I’ve been looking for them,’ she informed me cheerfully, shuffling up beside me. ‘I was going to have them for me tea the other day. I got them out the fridge and then I lost ’em.’

‘It’s a good job you didn’t find them,’ I told her firmly. ‘You can’t have them now.’

She sniffed. ‘Jacko can have them.’

‘No, he can’t.’ Jacko with an upset stomach was an idea that didn’t bear thinking about.

Maisie wandered away, no longer interested. ‘Put ’em out for the birds.’

‘What, vultures? No, Maisie, they’re going in the bin.’

She tutted as if I was making a fuss about nothing, but didn’t argue. I inspected the rest of her fridge contents, disposed of anything life-threatening, sorted her recycling into the correct receptacles and put it all outside for collection next morning.

I left the van parked outside and walked the abominable Jacko into town. He was as badly behaved as ever and it was a relief to tie him up outside the chemist’s while I fetched Maisie’s prescription. I left him there while I did the rest of her shopping. He was looking forlorn by the time I got back, and feeling guilty at abandoning him, I let him have some of the doggie chocs I’d just bought him in Mr Singh’s. ‘Just don’t be sick,’ I warned him.

Maisie was fast asleep in her armchair when we got back. There was no need for me to tiptoe about; I knew nothing short of an earthquake would wake her. I stowed away her shopping, checked she had no laundry imprisoned in the washing machine, made her a ham sandwich for her supper and put the plate, together with her change and her prescription, on the table by her elbow. I let myself out.

Jacko had jumped up on to the sofa and from there to his favourite spot on the windowsill where he settled down for a doze. As I turned to close the garden gate behind me, he abruptly sat up, poked his snout through the lace curtain and began growling at me, showing his teeth, the curtain draped around his head like the veil of some ghastly bride.

‘What’s up with you?’ I mouthed at him. I crossed the lane to the van, coming around to the passenger door so that I could dump a bag of groceries I’d bought for myself on the front seat.