‘Well, I found out about the abandoned baby and it occurred to me to use it as a springboard for an article about historical events in the area.’

The practised lies fall easily from her lips, but Harry is unsmiling. Victor had humoured her. This man most likely will not.

He fires questions at her. ‘Do you expect to find the missing parents? Are you planning to speak to the person who was abandoned? Have you asked them if they mind your delving into their life?’

Flustered, she suddenly regrets coming to this cafe with a man she hardly knows. She considers leaving her coffee, apologising for wasting his time and making a bolt for it, but there is nothing to lose by fronting it out.

‘I’m sure the person in question won’t mind.’

‘And why do you have so much interest in Connie Littleton?’

‘Because she disappeared to Paris and never came back and . . .’

She loses her thread, takes a gulp of hot coffee, scalds her mouth and splutters. He hands her a paper napkin and she can tell that he doesn’t believe a word.

‘Why don’t you tell me who you really are?’ he says finally. ‘If you are a reporter, I’m not in the least bit interested in speaking to you.’

His tone is dismissive, coldly angry, his gaze piercing, and now she understands. His invitation has nothing to do with wanting to help her with research. He has created a trap, and his gaze, which didn’t bother her earlier, is now definitely intrusive. In fact, it’s downright annoying.

‘I’m not a reporter,’ she says, pushing her chair back and standing. ‘I’m a teacher, an ex-teacher, and an editor – and I’m interested in this story and . . .’ She trails off. ‘And I’m grateful for your advice about the hat . . . the beret . . . and the discount . . . but can you please stop looking at me like that!’

She fumbles in her bag for her purse. He leans forward and grabs her arm.

‘What the hell . . . ?’ She pulls away, but then stops. He is staring with such intensity, she has no idea what he wants.

‘I believe you,’ he says, ‘at least the part about you not being a reporter.’

Her heart slows.

‘And I didn’t mean to stare.’ He lets go of her and puts his hands to his face. ‘It’s just so strange. I mean . . . you came here talking about Connie Littleton and . . .’

‘And what?’ Even to her own ears, her voice sounds slow and far away. Her limbs feel light and Marina puts one hand on the table for balance.

‘You look so much bloody like her.’

She sits slowly, not taking her eyes off him. There is a churning inside her stomach and she is struggling to focus her mind. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Exactly that.’ He leans back, frustrated. ‘You look so much like her, you could be her daughter.’ He frowns. ‘Are you?’