‘There was a baby that was abandoned in 1964 in a house – 24 Harrington Gardens. Do you remember that?’

His eyes widen, but he speaks carefully. ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘I do recall that story.’

Despite the rising sense of guilt that she has somehow tricked this man, Marina continues. ‘I’m searching for the tenants who lived there at the time. I’ve spoken to several already, but . . .’ She pauses. ‘There is a particular person I’m interested in tracking down.’

‘Oh?’ He tightens his lips. ‘Who’s that?’

‘There was a young woman called Connie Littleton. She moved abroad before the baby was found. I was told she had a friend called Harry. And . . . I’m guessing that’s you.’

He stares at her, his eyes narrowing. ‘Yes,’ he says shortly. ‘Who told you where to find me?’

‘Victor. Victor Wallace.’

‘Oh.’ He studies her for a second and then frowns as if trying to place her. ‘Tell me again who you are.’

‘My name is Zoe . . .’

‘Zoe?’

‘Zoe Alexander.’ She pauses, wondering what to say next.

A woman appears from the back. She is about Harry’s age, rosy-faced and cheerful. She seems surprised to see the two of them standing there and glances from one to the other in turn. ‘This is my wife,’ he says, ‘Belinda.’

The two women smile at each other. Then, reaching inside her bag, Marina pulls out her notebook and a pen. She tears out a page, scribbles down her phone number and hands it to him. ‘Would you call me if you think you can help?’

He takes the paper with no response and she leaves quickly, clutching her beret in its elegant bag, walking rapidly away from the main road, in no particular direction. Her face burns. She has been too hasty mentioning Connie to Harry. She should have built up a relationship, gone into the shop a few times, established a rapport.

She is halfway along the street when she hears a shout.

‘Wait.’ Harry in a coat and trilby is hurrying towards her.

Her heart lifts and she stops. He catches up.

‘What did you say your name was?’

‘Zoe Alexander.’

‘Zoe.’ He scrutinises her. ‘Let me buy you a coffee.’

He walks away, hands in his pockets, as if expecting her to follow – which without hesitation she does.

They go to a cafe and find a seat in one corner. The cafe is elegant with Art Deco lamps and dark wood tables. Harry takes off his trilby and lays it on the table.

‘Tell me about your article,’ he says. ‘Why are you writing it?’

She clears her throat and speaks quickly, seizing her opportunity. ‘I’m a teacher by profession, but I’m working in publishing and I’d like the chance to write articles, for magazines. When I moved into 24 Harrington Gardens . . .’

‘You live there?’

‘Yes. There was a room free and I . . .’ She falters.

‘Go on.’