The stench of ammonia hits me the second I step through the front door into the hallway. It’s like stepping into a rabbit cage that hasn’t been cleaned for years.

From hip level upwards, the living room looks normal: on the mantelpiece stand porcelain figurines of ballerinas alongside framed, faded photographs of weddings, picnics and children playing in a garden; a pile of Reader’s Digest magazines is stacked haphazardly on the coffee table next to a green corduroy armchair; and a cream lace doily slip is spread across the back of the dusty-pink sofa. It’s all just as I’d expect of an elderly lady’s home. But the floor tells a completely different story. The beige carpet is spotted with dark patches of urine, speckled with sawdust and pebbled with rabbit faeces. There are rabbits everywhere, at least ten or twelve, hopping over torn newspapers, shredded toilet rolls and rotting vegetables, nibbling at the anaemic spider plant in the corner of the room and peeking out from beneath the furniture. The air is ripe with the scent of sawdust, animal hair and faeces.

This isn’t a straightforward “pensioner unable to care for a couple of rabbits” collection; it’s a job for one of the inspectors. Officially, I should call Sheila and request an inspector visit, but I want to check that none of the animals are in any immediate danger.

I am careful to keep my expression neutral as I pick my way through the detritus and perch on the edge of the armchair. Joan hovers beside me, the two rabbits still wriggling in her arms. Her eyes are wide, her lips pursed.

“Have you kept rabbits for long, Mrs Wilkinson?”

“All my life.” She avoids eye contact, her gaze fixed on a point somewhere to the left of my face. “I was given a rabbit for my fifth birthday. I only got to keep him for a few months.”

“What happened?”

“We went to India. My father was a missionary, mother was a nurse.”

“I see. That must have been upsetting.”

“It was.”

“And did you have pets in India?”

She shakes her head. “Mother said it would be unfair to the animals because we’d only have to move again.”

“Right.”

“I got these two after my Bob died.” She glances at the faded wedding photograph framed on the mantelpiece. “He wouldn’t let me keep rabbits. He said Spot would go after them.”

“Spot’s your dog?” There are no signs of a dog in the living room – no leads, bedding or bowls.

“Yes.”

“Where is he?”

“Ran away.”

There’s something about the way her eyes just flicked towards the door at the end of the living room that makes me nervous. “Did you report it?”

She shrugs. “I might have. I can’t remember. It wasn’t my fault he ran away. He didn’t want to live here after Bob died.”