‘What kind?’ The woman behind the counter beamed. She looked like a larger, more cheerful version of Fleet’s mother: how his mum would have perhaps ended up looking if she’d smoked and gone to church less, and instead had eaten more cake. ‘The underfunded kind, honey. But other than that we take all sorts. Cancer, stroke, Alzheimer’s, motor neurone. What particular flavour are you looking for?’ She said this last with a sparkle. Fleet had a sense she’d used the line before, and enjoyed it every time.

‘Actually, I was hoping to talk to a man called Richard Hewitt.’

‘Old Dickie?’ The woman arched an eyebrow. ‘Well, whatever you want to speak to him about, I can promise you he didn’t do it.’

Now Fleet was the one to raise his eyebrows.

‘Come with me,’ the woman said. ‘I’ll show you what I mean.’

She led Fleet along a corridor that was beige from floor to ceiling, and they eventually came to a stop at the threshold of one of the rooms. Most of the doors they’d passed had been open, and Fleet could tell that every room was identical, save for the unique array of medical equipment that had been prescribed for each occupant. In Richard Hewitt’s room, as well as the bed, television and a chair for visitors, there was an IV stand and an oxygen tank. Hewitt was hooked up to both.

‘Dickie? You’ve got a visitor, honey!’ the receptionist half yelled.

Hewitt’s eyes were closed and he didn’t respond. The rhythm to which his oxygen mask misted and then cleared again seemed to confirm he was asleep.

‘You see what I mean?’ Fleet’s escort said to him. ‘It’s a good day for old Dickie if he can make it outside into the garden. Mostly he’s lucky if he has the strength to get up to pee.’ There was genuine compassion in the woman’s voice, and Fleet had yet to see the smile disappear entirely from her face. If the rest of the staff here cared as much as she did, maybe this wouldn’t be such a bad place to end up in after all.

‘What’s wrong with him?’ Fleet asked.

But before the woman had a chance to answer, another voice cut in.

‘Who the hell are you?’

Fleet and the receptionist both turned.

‘Are you a reporter? Because if you are, you can get out of my father’s room right now.’

‘Mrs Leigh …’ the receptionist began, even as Fleet reached for his ID.

‘I’m with the police, Mrs Leigh,’ he said, as the woman who’d appeared in the doorway – slim, fair, about Nicky’s age – strode into the room. She moved directly to her father’s side and rested a hand protectively on his shoulder. She peered intently at Fleet’s identification, but rather than seeming reassured, her eyes grew a fraction tighter.