“I’m here to see Mr. Nichols, please.”

“Do you mean Charlie?”

“Yes, Charlie Nichols. I am, or was, a friend of his daughter, and his granddaughter. I was passing and wanted to say hello.”

The nurse lifts a hand to her mouth.

“You knew that poor woman? We’ve all been watching it on the news, it’s a horrible, horrible . . .” She stops, looks at me, tilts her head, a wrinkle forming in the middle of her brow. “You’re not the next-door neighbor, the girl who found her, are you?”

I look away, nod, and before I know it she’s patting my back as I sign my name in the visitors’ book, then walking me down the long corridor.

“Charlie doesn’t know what happened, of course. He doesn’t come out of his room much now to be honest—he’s not one to socialize. Yes, hello, Cynthia,” she says to an old woman with no teeth. The old people we pass gawk at me like kids who have forgotten it’s rude to stare.

“He’s harmless enough, but he does get very confused with his illness. If he starts getting rowdy you just pull his alarm bell and leave the room, OK?” The nurse stops outside a beige door, identical to all the other doors we’ve passed. “I’ll come and check on you in a couple of minutes anyway, OK?” She knocks once, but doesn’t wait before slowly opening the door.

“Charlie, you’ve got a visitor!” she calls in a loud voice.

His room is small, boxlike—it looks like a hospital room, not a bedroom. It’s like he’s just moved in; the walls are blank. Everything—from the sheets on the bed to the chair he’s sitting in—looks standard NHS.

He’s facing the window but his chin is slumped to his chest so he can’t be looking out. His hair is a white cloud above his head and his skin has a silvery quality, like wood left outside too long. He opens his eyes a crack, chews on his mouth, like he’s waking it up to say something after a long time. His brow is fixed in a scowl. Suddenly I have no idea why I’m here.

“Well? Who is it?” His voice sounds corroded from lack of use. “Come here so I can see you if you won’t bloody talk.”

I feel like I’m walking towards an old dog, one who could nip me without warning. I try to smile as his watery eyes slip over me.

“I’m Cara.” I make my voice warm.

“Are we related?” More scowling.

“No, no we’re not. I’m here because I know . . . because I lived next door to your daughter, to Megan and Grace.”

A corner of his mouth turns up involuntarily, he chews it again.

“I don’t have a daughter.” His words are clearer now. I don’t want to challenge him, I’m afraid of upsetting him. Maybe the nurse showed me to the wrong room? But this man is the man from the photo, so he must be Charlie.