He knew he wouldn’t have any trouble finding the place. There was only one nursing home in Dronfield that specialised in dementia care. He’d visited it with his youngest brother when they’d been trying to find somewhere for their father; somewhere comfortable enough to assuage their guilt at abandoning him to an institution.

He pulled up at the end of the gravel drive, a mass of Victorian brickwork in front of him. Dronfield Place must have been a substantial country house when it had been built in, as the plaque between the upper-storey windows proudly proclaimed, the 1880s. The addition of a sprawling modern extension had increased its capacity but diminished its impact considerably. He could see a few residents seated round tables in front of the extension’s patio doors enjoying the summer sunshine. Why hadn’t they chosen this place for his father? They’d looked at so many he was struggling to remember.

As soon as he entered the reception the reason came back to him. At the desk stood the not inconsiderable figure of Mrs Danks, the care home manager. Twice the girth of David and almost as tall, Mrs Danks was decidedly more drill sergeant than Florence Nightingale. And now he also recalled thinking to himself last time that he wouldn’t have fancied being a resident who disagreed with her. He just hoped she didn’t remember him from his previous visit.

He smiled, grateful that he’d thought to pack his Marks & Spencer blazer for the conference. ‘Hi, I wonder if you can help me. I’m here to see …’ He hesitated, suddenly aware he didn’t know Beth’s father’s first name. ‘Mr Kinsella.’

Mrs Danks hit David with a full-on laser beam of a glare. ‘And you would be?’

‘David. David Barker. I’m a relative of Mr Kinsella’s.’

She didn’t look convinced. ‘I wasn’t aware Mr Kinsella had any surviving relatives, now that his daughter is no longer with us.’

David supposed you must become practised in death-related euphemisms if you worked in a place like this for any length of time.

He said, ‘Our side of the family had kind of lost touch with Beth’s until the funeral. You know how it is. And with Beth gone I just sort of thought someone ought to come and pay Uncle a visit.’

She seemed to have accepted his explanation, because she started searching through a list on the clipboard in front of her. ‘Ah. Here he is: Jeffrey Kinsella, room 27B – that’s ground floor, corridor B, but you’ll probably find him in the day room. I’ll get someone to show you through. If I can just get you to sign in.’

He must have looked nervous. He certainly felt it.

‘It’s just in case of fire.’