He gestures for her to sit in the armchair and offers tea, insisting when she refuses. While he is gone, she looks about the room. There is a single armchair, a bulky TV, a plain table and two hard-backed chairs. The colour scheme is bland – brown carpet and curtains, beige walls and a yellow lampshade, although one wall is covered in a glamorous array of black and white photos of women with chandelier earrings and mini-dresses and men in suits. It’s a shrine to the sixties. She recognises Diana Ross and Cilla Black. There are a couple of men who resemble gangsters.

Victor returns with one cup and saucer which he hands to Marina before fetching a chair from the table and setting it in front of her, too close for comfort. He sits and folds his arms.

‘So,’ he says, ‘to what do I owe this pleasure?’

‘I wanted to ask you about Thomas Littleton. I know that you worked with him, so I wondered if you could help me with some details.’

He leans back in his chair and takes out a cigarette. ‘What about him?’

‘Was he married?’

‘He was when I met him.’

‘What happened?’

‘His wife died. Cancer.’ He lights his cigarette.

‘When?’

He shrugs. ‘I can’t remember exactly, early sixties.’

‘What was her name?’

‘Sarah.’

Marina blinks. Where has she heard that name before? ‘Did they have a child?’

In an instant, Victor’s expression closes. He produces the hip flask from his pocket and takes a swig.

‘Ah yes. Connie.’

Marina feels a shot of excitement. She was right. There had been a girl living in that flat, hiding her treasures beneath the floorboards – a girl called Connie. She lets the revelation settle and drinks her tea, which is strong and surprisingly good.

‘You knew her,’ she says, setting down her cup.

‘You could say that.’ Victor’s manner has definitely changed. He is guarded, looking at her with lidded eyes as he smokes.

‘Was she away when they found the baby?’

He frowns. ‘Yes, she was. You really are interested in this case, aren’t you?’

She regards him steadily. ‘I’m interested in writing an article.’

He nods slowly, raising his eyebrows as if he doesn’t believe her.

She swallows and continues. ‘So, where was she?’

Victor waits a beat. ‘Paris.’

It’s her turn to frown. ‘Didn’t you say Dorothy’s son, Johnny, went to Paris?’

‘Yep.’ Dislike creeps across his face.

Now she understands. Connie must have run off with this boy and Victor was jealous. ‘How old was she?’

‘Seventeen.’

‘And when did you say she left?’

‘I didn’t.’

She blinks. ‘All right. When did she leave? How long was it before the baby was discovered?’

‘I don’t know exactly. Days, maybe.’

Marina stares at him. ‘In that case . . .’

‘I know what you’re thinking and no, Connie wasn’t pregnant. Definitely not.’