First to greet me each morning would be the night shift. They would give me an update before signing off. I would tour the building on my first inspection round of the day. Giovanni, my chef, would hand me my second cuppa as I entered the kitchen. “Another day, another dollar?” he’d greet me laconically. He knew I was never bored but liked to pretend otherwise. This was my normal, and I cherished it.

Just after the nine o’clock Radio 4 headlines, Molly Fitzwalter would join me for a chat. She had taken over our most palatial suite not long before. Intelligent, sleek and alert, she reminded me of the kestrel that hovered over the nearby motorway intersection. A recently retired circuit judge, she had always enjoyed our conversations.

Though I was careful not to have favourites, I was flattered by the attention of such a brilliant mind. But that morning in late January, her expression was grim, her husky voice brooking no disagreement. “Meirion Court could become a death trap if you don’t act smartly. We’ll need a firewall around this place,” she declared abruptly. I could see the worry lines on her forehead, a stark contrast to her usual ironic affection.

I guessed she was referring to the use of “pandemic” by American scientists on that morning’s news. The notion that a virulent, deadly infection affecting untold numbers of people could invade our sanctuary seemed surreal. The idyllic life we were cultivating within the walls of Meirion Court suddenly seemed so fragile: the air we breathed could be our enemy.

But her words, stark and unsettling, hung in the air, heavy with challenge. I initially refused to accept them and shook my head slightly to express my scepticism. “You think it’s that serious?” I replied non-committally and with my usual air of calm. I did not want to start an argument with her on a subject on which I knew nothing. The daily routines of Meirion Court had always shielded us from the world beyond our walls.

Molly rarely exaggerated and hated fuss. If her logic was sound, Meirion Court was already a fortress under siege. “You don’t want to share the evidence for that?” She felt no need to reply. “Okay. Leave it with me,” I said, intrigued but not too disturbed. “I’ll phone around some other care home managers and find out how concerned they are.”