Emma rang the doorbell. It was dark and quiet within. No response. She stepped back to look and see if there was any life upstairs. Dots of rain prickled her skin and speckled her pale grey jacket. If no one was in then she would leave a note for them. She’d take a sheet from their recycling box, which was bulging with loose-lined pages covered in neat ink-penned handwriting. From the point of unity, the same self may retreat . . . The rest was hidden under a Wetlands magazine. She rang again and peered through the panel. She was about to leave when she saw a figure slowly approaching. She stood back. With much unlocking, the door opened and an old man stood there. It was clear from his eyes, dark and fiery, and his skin, sallow and swarthy, that he was Connie’s father. He blinked at her.

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you. I did try ringing several times . . .’

‘Hello,’ he said. There was a smell of mustiness and drains.

‘I’m Dr. Robinson.’

‘Is this bad news?’ he asked. He looked scared.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m from the Tatchwell, I’m working with Connie.’

At the mention of his daughter’s name, a weighted sorrow seemed to seep through his features; his shoulders dropped, his head hung, his mouth drooped.

‘Come in,’ he said, opening the door wider. She stepped inside. It was dim in the house. The walls of the hall were crowded with paintings and prints, and the floor was lined with piles of books in Sainsbury’s bags. He moved awkwardly through the hall, leaving a faint waft of urine in his wake. She wondered whether there was a carer in place or whether he was trying to care for his wife alone; she would ring social services when she got back and find out exactly what was going on.

‘Is your wife in?’ she asked, but he had bent down to move a heavy metal doorstop and it fell over with a bang, drowning out her voice.

She glanced up into the darkness of the floor above. No curtains were open; the house was still, the green carpet worn on each step. A painting caught her eye: Connie and her brother as teenagers, lying on a sofa reading books.

‘Your son David lives in Australia, is that right?’ she asked.

‘That’s right,’ Mr. de Cadenet said, pausing mid-shuffle, sounding most surprised that she should know.