Thank you to all the people who helped me to write this book: to Dr Debra Bradley, Peter Parish MD, Lavinia Payne, and Dr Mark Perry, for answering my particular scientific and medical queries; to the novel-writing group, Christina, Maggie, Marion, and Natasha, for support, criticism and hugely enjoyable discussions; to all the readers who asked how I was getting on; and to Mike for solving the various mysteries that my computer dreams up.
‘I’m concerned about her,’ she was saying, ‘she’s so…’ the patina of lines on her face creased into a frown as she groped for the word she wanted, ‘distant. She’s losing interest.’ Her voice rose in agitation. ‘It’s not like Lily.’
Agnes Donlan was beautiful. And very old. Clean, airy white hair framed her face. Not the sort of colour you could get out of a bottle. White teeth too, very even, probably not her own.
‘How long has she been there?’ I pulled my notebook closer to jot things down.
‘Eight weeks. She had the bad fall at the beginning of October and she was in the week before Christmas. It was all such a rush. She’d made up her mind. I was against it. Once you leave your own home, your independence…’ She left the sentence hanging, its implication clear.
‘So her decline could well be due to the move?’
Agnes fiddled with the jet brooch on her coat. ‘Oh, I don’t know. If that was it, then, well,’ she spread her hands, palms up, ‘I’d just have to accept it, but…’
She couldn’t bring herself to say it aloud.
‘Listen, Miss Donlan.’ I leant back and made eye contact. Her eyes were a deep blue, almost navy, like her coat. ‘If I’m to help I need to know exactly what’s worrying you. What you’d like me to do.’
‘It sounds so melodramatic,’ she protested.
I smiled. ‘Everything between us is completely confidential. If I think the case is ridiculous, a waste of my time and your money, I’ll say so.’
‘Good. It’s so hard to know.’ She took a breath and straightened up in the chair. ‘Very well. I’m concerned,’ she spoke slowly, choosing her words with care, ‘that Lily’s health is being affected, that something in that place is making her ill.’ Her composure wobbled as she voiced her fears, and tears glistened in her eyes. She blinked them away. ‘It sounds far fetched, doesn’t it?’
‘No. You may be right. We’d need to find out about conditions there, try to discover whether there’s anything practical that can be done to improve her care. Sort out whether it’s the upset of moving that’s unsettled her or something else. Has Mrs Palmer got a social worker?’
