Go Not Gently - [5]

I stuck some washing in the machine, then sat in the kitchen and browsed through the books that Moira had left. It became clear that dementia wouldn’t have resulted from either Lily’s fall or from leaving her home. But both the books listed two types of dementia, Alzheimer’s and something called acute confusional disorder. The latter could result from physical illness, like a severe infection or as a reaction to drugs. So it could be treated and would stop, unlike actual senile dementia.

Agnes had described Lily’s decline as rapid, the books said Alzheimer’s developed slowly over several months. But Mrs Valley-Brown had told Agnes that Lily had Alzheimer’s disease, the commonest form of dementia. Presumably the GP knew how to tell the two states apart and for some reason they’d discounted acute confusion. I understood Agnes’ disquiet: at first glance the facts didn’t appear to add up.

I opened my notepad and listed the questions we needed answers to. The more I thought about it the more likely it seemed that there’d been a misdiagnosis. That an untreated illness or an adverse reaction to medication had led to Lily Palmer becoming troubled, confused, unlike her usual self. If we could establish the cause and treat it then Lily would get better and Agnes would have her old friend back. It wasn’t right: Agnes had been anxious enough to come to a private investigator when the Homelea staff dismissed her concerns. They should have been on to it straight away.

I switched the washing to the tumble dryer in the cellar, then made a quick foray to the shops on my bicycle. Withington is a real mix of taste and tack. Discount shops selling brightly coloured, semi-disposable goods made in China and the Philippines nestle cheek by jowl with more upmarket outlets: delicatessens, health food shop, designer clothes boutiques.

I bought pasta, cheese and milk from the small supermarket, then negotiated my way to the greengrocer’s. The pavements were narrow and crowded with shoppers. I wheeled my bike along the gutter to avoid colliding with anyone.

I was tempted by gleaming displays of avocados, imported beef tomatoes, limes and grapes, by bright bunches of hothouse herbs, but I resisted. Our budget rarely ran to the exotic end of the stall. If it was in season or on offer we ate it. Cabbage, carrots, turnips, onions. Fruit was the exception as the mainstay of the battle against tooth decay: ‘No you can’t, have some fruit.’

It had actually stopped raining but the cold, grey fug lingered as though the drizzle had been freeze-framed. Back home I had cheese on toast, pulled on another sweater and gathered things up to take round to the office.

The crocuses that dotted gardens along the way had taken a battering from the recent gales. The purple and yellow flowers lay sprawled and broken. I’d never bothered with crocuses, they were just too feeble for the season. I stuck to polyanthus and primroses, snowdrops and winter pansies – lovely gaudy colours for murky winter days.

I picked up my business mail from the table in the hall and went down to the cellar. The answerphone light blinked three times and paused. I hung my coat on the back of the door and made ready to take notes. The first message was from Wondawindow Systems, from Michelle, no less, who would call again later to discuss with me the new range of low-maintenance, high-quality, fully guaranteed, top-security, bonus-offer uPVC double-glazed windows currently available. I glanced at the narrow basement window with its broken blind. Shrugged.

The second caller had rung off without leaving a message. The third was the man who’d rung me the previous afternoon. I recognised the nervous laugh.

‘Hello…’ laugh. ‘Yeah, it’s about something I want you to investigate. Can you ring me at work?’ He reeled off the number. ‘And, erm…’ laugh, ‘if I’m out on a job then leave a message for me and I’ll ring you when I get back. Right.’ Pause. ‘Thanks.’

Well, I’d have done so gladly but he hadn’t left his name. I did try the number on the off chance it was a direct line. A woman answered. ‘Hello, Swift Deliveries.’

I explained that I wanted to get in touch with one of the younger men whose name I’d forgotten. She couldn’t help.

‘We’ve fifteen drivers, love. All over the region. I need a name.’

I gave up. With luck, he’d try again.

My mail consisted of bumf from the bank trying to get me to take out a loan and a letter from the accountants asking for my detailed income and expenditure so they could prepare my year-end accounts.

I spent the rest of the afternoon preparing my accounts. It would have been easier if I’d entered things on a more regular basis but I shoved all my invoices and receipts into a box file marked ‘Finance’ and left it till the dreaded letter arrived. It wasn’t even all that complicated. The thought of doing it was always worse than the reality.

By the time I’d finished I reckoned I’d have to pay about £500 tax in a couple of instalments over the next year. I couldn’t believe that I could earn so little and still have to pay tax. I certainly didn’t have a spare £500 sloshing round in the bank. Oh, well. It wasn’t due yet and maybe by the time that bill came in I’d have found a nice little earner.