She moved quickly to shake off the shock, pulling Eileen Cullen a few yards down the passage. ‘What in God’s name was he doing?’

‘Ah, well,’ Cullen said. ‘Would he have been cleaning her up, now?’

‘On account of the NHS can’t afford to pay people to take care of that sort of thing any more?’

Cullen tutted on seeing a tea trolley abandoned in the middle of the corridor.

‘Yes?’ Merrily said.

Cullen pushed the trolley tidily against a wall.

‘There now,’ she said. ‘Well, the situation, Merrily, is that he’s been doing that kind of thing for her ever since she came in, three days ago. Wouldn’t let anyone else attend to her if he was around — and he’s been around most of the time. He asks for a bowl and a cloth and he washes her. Very tenderly. Reverently, you might say.’

‘I saw.’

‘And then he’ll wash himself: his face, his hands, in the same water. It looked awful touching at first. He’d also insist on trying to feed her, when it was still thought she might eat. And he’d be feeding himself the same food, like you do with babies, to encourage her.’

‘How long’s she been dead?’

‘Half an hour, give or take. She was a bit young for a stroke, plainly, and he naturally couldn’t come to terms with that. At his age, he was probably convinced she’d outlive him by a fair margin. But there you go: overattentive, overpossessive, what you will. And now maybe he can’t accept she’s actually dead.’

‘I dunno. It looked… ritualistic almost, like an act of worship. Or did I imagine that?’ Merrily instinctively felt in her bag for her cigarettes before remembering where she was. ‘Eileen, what do you want to happen here?’

Cullen folded her arms. ‘Well, on the practical side…’

‘Which is all you’re concerned about, naturally.’