The Clutter Corpse - Simon Brett Page 0,1

incinerated after only one wearing.

My leggings do have pockets, but I’m too vain about the outline of my hips to put much in them. One is the occasional resting place for my mobile. In the other I keep a tape measure, because it is amazing how often I need to check available storage space. It goes without saying that the tape measure is not solid and encased in plastic. A folding fabric one in the pocket is much more flattering to my contours. Such vanity.

The kit I keep permanently in the boot of the Yeti consists of heavy-duty black bin bags, a boiler suit, surgical face masks, polythene protective shoe covers and sharp-proof gloves. I buy all such supplies in bulk, but check every morning that the boot’s well stocked. I always wear gloves when I first enter a property, though sometimes – to save the occupant from embarrassment – I say it’s because I’ve got a skin condition. Better the guilt should be on me than them. There are plenty of other wrong feet to start off on.

I have a toolbox too. The Stanley knife gets used most. Then screwdrivers, spanners and pliers. It’s rarely that the bolt-cutters come out, but hoarders can be – by definition perhaps – extremely protective of their possessions, so I have to be prepared.

I also keep an emergency supply of nappies and incontinence pads, which some of my clients need. And baby wipes. Don’t approve of what they do to the environment, but they’re so handy.

Then there’s a large torch. I rarely work in the evenings, but winter afternoons can get murky. And recesses like understairs cupboards often need illumination.

The remaining boot space is piled high with collapsed cardboard boxes. There’s also a plastic container of packs of tape and tape-dispenser guns. I get through those at a rate of knots. They’re also the kind of things that can easily get left behind in properties.

Though I say it myself, I am pretty damned quick at assembling a collapsed cardboard box with a tape-dispenser gun. In fact, if it were an Olympic event, I am quietly confident I could make the national team.

The cardboard boxes, incidentally, I get from a greengrocer who has a stall every Saturday in the Cattle Market car park. Like me, he’s manic about recycling and happy to supply me with all the containers his fruit and vegetables are delivered in. Better they go to me than to the municipal dump or incinerator.

So, the morning of the day when I found the corpse, having checked out my kit in the back of the Yeti, and having rechecked my Outlook calendar for the appointments ahead, I set off to visit my first client.

For the last few weeks, I’ve been going to see Queenie virtually daily. If I’m honest with myself, I worry that one day I’ll get there and find her dead. But hers wasn’t to be the corpse I found that particular day.

As with many of my clients, I was put in touch with Queenie by one of the local housing associations. I have an ongoing relationship with them, and I’m registered with the local authority as a hoarding consultant.

Queenie was in rent arrears, and there had been complaints from residents of nearby flats. I tackled the rent arrears first. She was a slightly other-worldly figure in her early eighties, who had once made a reasonable, if modest, living as a children’s book illustrator. But over the years arthritis had so crippled her fingers that she could no longer hold a paintbrush. As a result, she took her state pension and eked out her dwindling savings, unaware of the various grants available to people in her position. I sorted out her financial situation with the local authority pretty quickly. It’s something I’ve had to do many times before.

Dealing with the neighbours’ complaints proved more of a problem. Hoarding takes many forms, so do the things hoarded. In Queenie’s case it was cats.

The first time I met her in her two-bedroom flat, she had eleven. I’m used to smells – that’s a hazard of my trade – but the stench when she finally opened the door to me almost made me gag. In fact, it had been quite strong as I approached along the corridor, so I could understand what had led to the complaints.

It wasn’t just inside the flat that the cats offended the neighbours. Queenie’s was on the ground floor, and she’d had a cat flap put into one