“You go around the back, wait for me to get in and then do it.”
“Why do I have to go round, Dad?”
“Because you get spooked when they talk to you. Remember last time?”
“I don’t want to do this. It’s too hard.”
“We don’t have a choice. Now get round the back. Now. Go. Look, son, there’s no other way.”
“How will I know you’re in?”
“You’ll know. Scram.”

The older man waits a minute and then, straightening his jacket, approaches the front door of the ex-council house. He notices the front garden hasn’t been looked after properly - it’s often the case. As people get older, so they find it hard to make the effort of doing normal things, like getting dressed, brushing what remains of their teeth, and even making a cup of tea. Tending a garden is off the scale. Being old scares him, especially since he knows how easy it is to be taken advantage of at that time of life.

He rings the bell. He waits. No sound from within. Then he knocks on the door. Still nothing. About to give this one up as a bad job, he hears a sound from within, a faint call of pain and confusion. Peering through the letterbox he sees a floor covered in unopened mail and a pair of feet poking out of one of the doorways.

“Come on son, we’re leaving.”
“Why’s that dad?”
“She’s not going to let us in, and if I break in, there’s going to be a lot more than just explaining to do.”

About an hour later, a feeling like he’s lost something hits him and he calls the police anonymously.