The roses needed deadheading and the wisteria needed pruning. She’d do it later. Weeds were growing through the cracks in the path. Nothing that a bit of Roundup wouldn’t solve. She’d have the place shipshape in hours. Up to the front door. The shoe-scraper had gone. Dora wasn’t sure what that meant. She knocked on the door. There was no reply. Knocked again. Bent down to peer through the letter box, but it was blocked. Disappointment rose like a tide inside her and she had to fight back the tears. He was out. Gone away.

The back door. Dora ran round the side of the house. There was the shoe-scraper, by the kitchen door. The relief. It was on the left-hand side. What did that mean? Dora couldn’t remember. Was the coast clear, or were there prisoners hiding in the attic? Dora knocked, tried the handle. The door opened and she stepped inside. The kitchen hadn’t changed. There was the Aga, and the two Windsor chairs, the scrubbed pine table in the middle of the room, the blue and white pottery sitting on the dresser shelves. It was a little untidier than she remembered, with a dishtowel draped over the side of the sink and a pile of letters and newspapers on the end of the table. There was a calendar on the wall. John Deere supplies. The picture for June was a tractor.

The clock in the hallway whirred and Dora counted as it chimed. One. Two. Three. She’d set off at breakfast. Had it taken that long to come here? Perhaps the old clock was losing time, or gaining it. She called.

‘Geoffrey?’

Silence. He was here, in the attic, or reading. She walked into the hall, and opened the door to the sitting room. It was empty, the air had the stale odour of an unused room, the furniture was not in order but placed higgledy-piggledy, and old newspapers cluttered the sideboard and the table. She closed the door, climbed the stairs, onto the landing. Ahead was the attic door. Dora tried the handle, but it was locked. There was no key on the outside. Perhaps it was bolted from inside? He only locked it when there was someone there. Dora called again.

‘Geoffrey. Please open.’ Leant with her ear against the door, but there was no noise inside. ‘It’s me.’

Nothing, not even the scuffling as a prisoner tried to hide. Dora looked along the landing. The door to his bedroom was ajar and Dora walked towards it, stood in the doorway. The curtains were drawn against the afternoon sun, cast a golden light across the room. Dora looked around. The wallpaper had faded and there was a damp patch on the chimney breast.