Anyone who thinks little old ladies are feeble wants to try wrestling with one suffering from a urinary tract infection. This is brought on by dehydration and produces symptoms that can easily be mistaken for dementia. I called the paramedics the first time it happened. Maisie was already in fighting mood when they whisked her off to hospital. I followed in the van after packing her an overnight bag. By the time I got to the ward she’d turned violent and was going three rounds with one of the orderlies.

‘Who are you bossing about?’ she demanded belligerently, not taking the proffered squash. ‘Bossy cow,’ she muttered under her breath.

‘Fine.’ I set the glass down on a table. ‘I’ll ring Janet then, shall I?’ Janet is Maisie’s daughter who lives up north in some town that sounds like heck-as-like, and is always the ultimate sanction when Maisie misbehaves.

She picked up the squash hastily. ‘No, no. I’m only having you on.’ She sipped as if she suspected it was poison.

‘So, what friend were you talking about?’ I asked her. ‘Who’s in hospital?’

‘You know, him with the rag-and-bone shop.’

‘You mean Nick?’

‘That’s him. Stroke, three weeks back.’

I stared. ‘How did you find this out?’

Maisie had got the story from a friend at her church coffee morning, who’d got the story from Mr Singh. Apparently, Nick had rung him to ask him to bring round some groceries but when he’d arrived at Nick’s flat, he couldn’t get an answer. He’d called the police, who’d had to break in, and they found Nick on the kitchen floor.

‘And he’s been in hospital three weeks?’ I asked, aghast. ‘Where is he? Exeter?’

‘Paignton. He’s in the rehab unit,’ Maisie went on, pleased to be able to air her knowledge. ‘Mr Singh’s been visiting. He says they won’t let him come home cos he lives alone and there’s no one to look after him.’

This is not my problem, I told myself firmly, as I watched Maisie drink. But I decided that I’d pop round to Mr Singh’s shop, anyway, and get the full story.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I lied to the staff at the hospital. I told them I was Nick’s niece.

Maisie’s information was only partly correct. It turned out that he hadn’t suffered a major stroke, just a TIA – what they used to call a mini-stroke – and was, according to Mr Singh, as right as rain after a day or two. And he’d only been in the rehab unit for ten days, not three weeks. But social services weren’t prepared to allow him home unless there was someone there to look after him. I lied again. I would take him home, I said, I would look after him.