She is getting ready to go out when the visitor arrives. For a whole week the house has been full of Radio 2 and the singing of the plasterer who seems to know all of the words to all of the songs and is actually rather good, almost operatic, but very, very loud. He has been in the kitchen all morning, doing the last bits and pieces, but has run out of something vital and has gone off in his van to collect it from the wholesaler.

The place smells of change, which is not unpleasant, but it’s all a bit overwhelming. Georgia is going to grab the chance to visit the library to exchange her books and perhaps sit and read the newspapers. She has reserved a copy of Ottolenghi’s Plenty.

When she hears the back door open, she assumes it’s the plasterer and she doesn’t turn around, but continues to put her things into her rucksack. ‘I’m just popping out to get something for dinner. I expect I’ll be home at about three. Help yourself to tea. There are some biscuits in the yellow tin next to the kettle. Just shop ones, I’m afraid. I’m very much looking forward to having an oven again.’

‘Where is she?’ It’s a man’s voice. Someone she hasn’t heard before.

Georgia turns around quickly. The visitor is standing in the kitchen doorway, both feet on the first of the two scullery steps. Brown hair, tanned, looks as though he goes to the gym; all these things rush through her head.

‘I think you’ve come to the wrong house,’ she replies.

‘And I think I have not.’

Well-manicured hands. A signet ring. Never mind about the ring, he could always take it off. It might leave a white mark on his finger, though. Little finger, right hand.

She can feel herself becoming extremely calm. ‘Which house is it you are looking for?’

Hard to see his eyes from this distance. Mole above his left eyebrow.

‘Number 25. I know she’s here.’ He takes a phone from his trouser pocket and stabs at the screen.

Left-handed. Needs glasses. Same height as the hinge on the door jamb.

‘Electoral roll. Tess Dutton. 25 Library Terrace.’

‘You’re looking for Tess? She isn’t here today.’

‘I can wait.’ He looks past her. The kitchen table and chairs are covered up with plastic sheeting.

‘I’m afraid that’s not convenient; we are in a state of disarray, as you can see.’

‘I’m not in a rush. I’ve got all day,’ he replies, speaking carefully.

Is he drunk? Georgia isn’t sure.

‘She won’t be back until this evening.’

‘You’re lying.’

He is squaring up to her; she sees him lean forward a little and put his left foot on the next step.

‘I’m not lying. She is never here on Wednesdays.’

He seems suddenly unsure.