They haven’t yet met or even glimpsed the occupant of the upstairs rooms, although there have been noises. The old plumbing of the house echoes down into the basement, and both Leah and Jake have been disturbed in the night by the rattling of pipes, the odd creak in the floorboards. Yesterday, when she was sitting at the piano, struggling through the opening chords of ‘Clair de Lune’, a dragging sound overhead made her stop suddenly and withdraw her hands from the keyboard. The suggestion of a listening presence upstairs had made her shy. She had closed the lid and stepped away.

Now, she hurries to finish so that she can retreat into her own space. It’s hard to escape the feeling of trespass. But as she picks up the basket and turns quickly towards the house, her shin strikes an obstacle hidden in the grass and she cries out in pain. Dropping the basket, she stoops to examine the offending article, and sees a child’s tricycle long-abandoned to nature, rusting amid the weeds. Her leg is bleeding from a deep gash, bright red rivulets rushing towards her ballet flat. Half hopping, she hurries now towards the sanctuary of her kitchen where she slips off her shoe and raises her leg so that her foot is in the sink, cold water rushing over the wound. A hurried search of still-packed crates in their bedroom turns up a box of plasters with a Winnie the Pooh pattern. She patches herself up as best she can, then grabs her bag, conscious now of being late.

She is locking the door when she hears the voice above her, at the top of the stone steps. A man’s voice, but not one she recognizes.

‘Come on, Anton. Open up. Just for a few minutes?’

She hasn’t mastered the knack of the fiddly lock yet and struggles with it for a moment, all the while aware of the one-sided conversation upstairs.

‘Look, I know you’re in there,’ the man says. ‘If you open up we can have a quick chat and I’ll leave you in peace. Five minutes, that’s all. An opportunity to give your side of the story.’

The lock clicks. She puts the key into her bag and hurries up the steps, glancing quickly to where the man leans into the closed door, his mouth held close to the letterbox.

‘I’m not going away you know. I’m just going to keep on coming back,’ he warns.

He has his back to Leah, but when the gate clangs shut he turns and looks down at her. Fifty-ish, she guesses, in a summer shirt and nondescript slacks. His face has the reddish-purple hue of a drinker.

‘Oh, hello,’ he says, when he sees her, and there’s interest in his voice.