The last time that I had seen my mother’s vast drawing room it looked like an antiques salesroom, crammed from floor to ceiling with fine furniture and paintings. Now it was empty.

I found my sister S fast asleep under a heap of ragged blankets on a dirty mattress on the dining room floor.

When I asked what had happened to all the valuables, she muttered that ‘some men in a van’ had collected everything. She couldn’t remember the date they came, but she definitely didn’t see the auctioneer and hadn’t asked for a receipt.