‘You said she wrote the names of her children?’

‘Yes, that’s right isn’t it, Joan?’ Deborah looked past Sasha and Lolly at an older woman who was carrying bed linen along the corridor.

Joan stopped to cock an ear. ‘What’s that, love?’

‘Rachel Weston,’ said Deborah. ‘Do you remember her from a few years back? The lady who wrote on the wall of her room.’

‘Blimey, it’s been a while since I’ve thought of her.’ But Joan’s sour expression suggested she remembered Rachel alright. ‘She was a real menace, that one, defacing the walls and so forth. Always moaning, never happy about anything. She’d complain if she was put up at The Ritz.’

‘What names did she write on the wall?’ asked Sasha.

The old woman craned her neck forward. ‘What did she what?’

‘What did she write?’ Sasha asked again, more loudly. ‘Was it the names of her children?’

‘Children?’ Joan looked at Sasha as if she had lost her mind. ‘She only had one, I think. She wrote his name again and again. Jeremy, Jeremy, Jeremy. The bed was pushed against the wall so you couldn’t see what a terrible mess she made, it was all smeared. I tried to clean it, but in the end we had to get it repainted, didn’t we, Deborah?’

‘We did. As I say, very feisty.’

Joan’s nostrils flared. ‘That’s one word for her, I suppose.’

When Joan had gone, Sasha asked, ‘Would it be possible to see the room where she stayed?’

The duty manager blinked. ‘The wall was cleaned a long time ago – you won’t see anything of interest.’

‘Why don’t we have a look, anyway?’ Sasha smiled. ‘While we’re here.’

Deborah took them along the corridor and up a flight of stairs. All the fire safety doors clanged shut behind them on spring-loaded hinges, and were covered in more laminated signs, which warned residents not to smoke, not to run, not to litter, not to bully other residents, and to ensure they attended key working sessions.

‘The rooms are not designed to look very comfortable, I’m afraid.’

Small and square and overlooking the street, the room was nondescript. The early evening sun had passed over the roof of the building and the light was fading. A single bed was placed up against the wall and there was a listing wardrobe. A pair of thin curtains framed the double-glazed windows and a threadbare rug on the floor covered painted floorboards. The skirting was lumpy from where it had been painted down the decades. Deborah pointed at the side table beside the bed. There was a lamp, a folded newspaper and an empty mug with a teaspoon inside.

‘This room is occupied,’ said Deborah. ‘A new resident arrived this morning, so I’d ask you not to poke around in the wardrobe or drawers.’