“How long since your husband died, Mrs Wilkinson?”

“Eighteen months.” Her eyes mist with tears and it’s hard not to feel sorry for her. Cruelty cases may seem cut and dried when they’re reported in the media, but they’re not always about evil men and women abusing animals. So many of the cases involve lonely, desperate people with mental health issues. They take on an animal, thinking it will be good company, but find they can’t cope. If you’re struggling to look after yourself, how can you look after an animal, too?

“I’m so sorry for your loss. That must have been very upsetting. Do you have children or relatives who look in on you?”

She shakes her head again. “My parents are dead and my brother lives up in Leeds. It was only ever me and Bob. We couldn’t have children.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” She looks back at the point just to the left of my head. “We were happy enough.”

I gesture towards the door at the other end of the living room. “Do you mind if I have a look around?”

“Why?” The wistful look in her eyes vanishes.

“Just to get an idea of how many rabbits you’ve got.”

“Sixteen.”

“Okay. I’d still like to take a look around, if I may, just to see them for myself. Is that okay?” I take a step towards the door but Joan grabs me by the wrist. Her grip is surprisingly powerful for a woman of her age and build. The two rabbits she was holding escape and hop towards the curtains.

“You can go in the kitchen, but don’t go in the larder.”

“Why not?”

“There’s a fly problem. I don’t want you letting them out and upsetting the bunnies.”

There are three more rabbits in the kitchen, one in a wire cage, the other two in the cupboard under the sink. The door is long gone, the hinges ginger with rust. The sink and surfaces are stacked with crusty pots, pans and dishes, crumpled newspapers, bills, plastic bags and assorted junk. There are two doors at the end of the kitchen, both closed. The glass-fronted one leads outside. The doorknob on the other door, the one I assume to be the larder, is hanging off.

I head towards it, picking my way over split bin bags and rotting food, a single light bulb, hanging from the ceiling on exposed wires, humming ominously over my head. It isn’t just the inspector I need Sheila to call. Social Services will have to get involved, too.

“You’ve seen everything you need to see,” Joan says from behind me. “And I’d like you to leave. I’ve changed my mind about you taking my rabbits.”