‘No one else is in?’ she asked, as they turned left into a sitting room where piles of clothes spilled out of black bin bags. They were having a sort-out. Every cranny of wall space was filled with paintings or prints and every inch of the floor appeared to be occupied, either with the bags or piles of books that grew in towers across the carpet and upon the sofa and chairs. The Life of the Medici, The Letters of Marsilio Ficino: Volume V and Ramses lay on the tops of the nearest piles.

‘Gosh,’ she said. ‘You’re certainly having a clear-out!’

‘Yes, we’ve been trying to . . . sort things out,’ he said, looking about the room confusedly while a telephone began to ring. He didn’t seem to hear it, or he ignored it. Her own calls had obviously been similarly left to the ether.

‘Are you here to take the books?’ he asked.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m here to talk about Connie . . . I’m the forensic psychiatrist?’

‘Of course you are.’

Dust lay thick about the place. The paintings were crooked, revealing darker stains on the walls behind. Her eyes followed a trail of crumbs across the carpet that led to a half-eaten lemon drizzle cake, which lay in its Sainsbury’s box on a chair. A faux fire glowed dimly but the room was cold and his hands were purple, trembling slightly.

He set off across the room. She noticed how his cardigan had stains on the back as if someone had been hurling mess at him. She thought of Connie and her brother and the game they would play with him, making him guess what he was wearing. It was hard for him to walk, and looking down she noticed why: his shoes were on the wrong feet. She would ring social services as soon as she got back to her car.

‘But I can definitely take some bags to the charity shop if you need me to,’ she said. ‘And here, let me take these plates and cups to the kitchen.’

He stopped mid-voyage and turned to her. ‘How very kind of you,’ he said, surprised by the offer.

She picked up the cups that were lying around, all of which had congealed mould at the bottom. She scooped up the lemon drizzle and found a couple more plates amongst the piles. ‘You’ve got some lovely paintings,’ she said as she did so. And he stopped and looked upwards around the room as if he had only just noticed them.

‘Yes, we’ve always enjoyed art. Not me so much, but I enjoy other people enjoying art . . .’ He smiled at her and his eyes almost disappeared.