It was gone 8.30 by the time Alex arrived at the nursing home. The building was so still at this time of the evening, almost other-worldly quiet; a completely different place to the one that was alive during the day, with its noises and its smells and incessant reminders of decrepitude. At night, there was a silence that to the inexperienced visitor might have suggested peace. But Alex knew otherwise. She had been coming to this place for a year now, since her mother had been assessed as having full-time nursing needs. Until then, they had somehow been coping at home, with Alex balancing her mother’s care around work and employing paid help to assist her when she wasn’t there.

Now they were at the stage of adult nappies and pureed dinners, thickened drinks and brief, incoherent exchanges.

Alex pressed the code into the keypad at the front door and waited for the electrical buzz that acknowledged her admittance to the building. The corridors were quiet and empty. She made her way to her mother’s room and gently pushed the door open, knowing she would be asleep and not wanting to disturb her. The room smelled stale – the kind of smell she could only associate with this place – and she went to the window, eased it open quietly and allowed the night air to circulate in a warm blast around her. Her mother was lying on her back, her thin grey hair fanned out on the pillow around her head, so fine it was like feathers. She had a hand resting above the duvet. Her skin was so pale now, almost transparent; so delicate that Alex feared she would break it if she was to touch her.

‘Hello, love.’ Gillian’s eyes opened and rested on her daughter. ‘I didn’t think I’d be seeing you today.’

It had been weeks since her mother had spoken this coherently, and Alex found herself not quite knowing how to respond. She sat in the chair by the bedside and took her mother’s hand in hers. ‘Hi, Mum.’

Gillian’s eyes narrowed, her expression changing. Her thin face became even more pinched as she studied Alex. ‘Are you my sister?’

Alex felt her stomach flip, as it always did when this happened. She had been a sister, brother, mother, husband. In recent weeks, she hadn’t once been recognised as daughter.

‘No, Mum,’ she said, knowing that her disagreement would be pointless. ‘It’s me … Alex.’

Her mother’s hand slid from hers and moved across the duvet, drawing away from her. ‘I don’t know you.’ Her eyes closed and she turned her head towards the wall.

The words stung, though Alex realised she should have been used to this feeling by now. Her mother was confused, though there were the occasional days when Alex wondered whether Gillian knew exactly who she was and used her confusion as an excuse not to acknowledge her.

She tried to distract herself with thoughts of work. Charging Tom Stoddard would be a victory, though comparatively small and ineffectual. One dealer might have been identified, but how many more were there? South Wales’s drugs issues were the same as those in every area of Britain: far too widespread for the police to keep under any sort of control. Stoddard was small fry. Alex could see the fear that had developed as his interview had progressed; he was little more than an idiot boy who had got himself involved with something way out of his league. Despite that, if it turned out he had sold those drugs to Amy Barker, then he’d known exactly what he was doing. He might be an idiot, but no idiot was stupid enough to not realise the harm that drugs could cause. How many more Amy Barkers would there be before people began to learn? But where drugs were concerned, Alex suspected the worst. People wouldn’t learn.

The door to her mother’s room opened and one of the carers appeared. She was young, little more than twenty; one of the regular carers Alex was familiar with.

‘You’re here late,’ she said.

‘Long day at work.’

The girl gave her a smile. ‘Do you want a cup of tea or anything?’

‘That’d be lovely, thanks. I’ll come with you, save you bringing it back.’

They headed together down the corridor to the kitchen.

‘She’s in safe hands, you know,’ the girl said, as though reading Alex’s concerns.

In truth, Alex knew that safe hands weren’t going to make any difference. The disease had spread so quickly – had taken such a firm and intense grip on her mother – that nothing and no one could prevent what it was now set to do.

‘I know.’

She waited in the corridor as the carer went into the kitchen to make tea. She wondered if her mother would actually want her there if she was aware of what was happening. She knew she had been a disappointment to her; from school to her career choice, and then again when it had come to her failure to create a family. Her mother had always felt that Alex delayed things for too long, procrastinating until eventually choices were taken away from her.

Perhaps she hadn’t been so far from the truth, Alex thought.

The carer reappeared from the kitchen and handed her a cup of tea.

‘Thanks.’

‘Do you mind if I make a suggestion?’ the girl said.

‘No.’

‘Have the tea and then go home to bed. Everything will look better in the morning.’

Alex smiled at her youthful optimism. By the time she got to Alex’s age, the girl would realise things rarely looked better in the morning.

She stayed a while longer in her mother’s bedroom, listening to the steady purr of her breathing. She watched her chest rise and fall, the regular motion almost hypnotic. When she felt her eyes begin to grow heavy, she admitted defeat and left.

Her own home wasn’t too far away, just a ten-minute drive when the traffic was quiet. When she got back, the place was in darkness and she suspected Chloe was still out with Scott. Perhaps she had finally decided to spend a night at his.

She showered and changed and went to the living room. She lay on the sofa and flipped through television channels, not really taking in what she was staring at. Her mind was lost to other things, to the day that fell behind her and the one that lay stretched out ahead. Her thoughts were lost to her mother, and the situation they had found themselves in.

She didn’t want to go upstairs to bed. What had once been her marital bed – and had later become the bed to which she had returned with her by then ex-husband – now seemed a strange and alien place, as though the loneliness of it was rejecting her and casting her aside. Eventually she fell asleep on the sofa, the TV still on and the blanket she had pulled across twisted around her.

She was woken by the phone. Her mobile was on the carpet beside the sofa, still turned to silent since her visit to the nursing home. She was such a light sleeper, its vibrations alone were sufficient to wake her.

‘Hello?’

‘Boss … sorry to call you so early.’

She pulled the phone away from her ear and glanced at the time. It was twenty to five in the morning.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘Leah Cross,’ the officer told her. ‘Looks like someone’s tried to kill her.’